The (Mis)Adventures of the Musketeers
by ThorneofAcre
Summary: This is just something to get all the ideas out of my head: introspective character studies, filling of plot holes, humorous shenanigans, epic bromances, you'll find it all here. If you want to see anything in particular done, prompts are very welcome. Chapter 20: The Drunken Adventures of Athos and D'Artagnan II. (Title might be misleading if it sounds fluffy. It's not.)
1. The Measure of a Man

**A/N**: Spoilers for Episode 3 'Commodities.' A little introspective look at Athos's character, my favorite musketeer. Why isn't there a bigger fall out for him of that episode yet, I don't know. he just seems to have accepted the fact that 'oh the woman I loved and had killed is very much alive and wants revenge.' Ughh. Still it's early in the season and the series so we can't be too critical...  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I don't own The Musketeers. That privilege belongs to the BBC.

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><p>The Measure of a Man.<p>

Athos had complete and utter faith in Aramis and Porthos. They were his brothers in all but blood. They had laughed with him, drank with him, cried with him, fought with him, bled for him and they had moved the earth and skies to answer when he called.

They were no doubt the greatest friend a man could ask for. But they were not his confidants.

"_There was someone special once, she died. That's all he ever said." _

It was a daunting prospect, knowing that he had the absolute loyalty of the two of the greatest men he had ever known and that they would die for him in an instance. He did not think he deserved it, he was not the man they saw him as. But he strove to live up to their expectations; they looked up to him as a leader, he intended to make sure that they were proud to call him that.

If that meant being unflinching in the face of pain and death, he would do it. If that meant putting a brave face while he was hurting, he would do it. If that meant suppressing his own grief and being there for them instead, he would do it. If that meant marching into hell with his head held high, he would do that too. He would do it all, and he would smile throughout.

And then there was d'Artagnan.

He did not owe Athos anything. But when Athos looked at him, he saw the familiar awe and respect shining in his eyes.

He was an ignorant fool, a naïve farmer's boy who would idolize anyone without thought, Athos told himself.

Until d'Artagnan had walked into a burning mansion with his name on his lips, and dragged him out.

Athos had been a wreck. The hatred and desire for revenge burning is his dead wife's eyes had sent him over a brink he wasn't sure he could come back from. He had bared his throat to her, content to die by her hands than to live on with the pain and grief. He had remained on the floor while his childhood home burned around him, not willing to move or save himself.

He was a man of the law, sworn to uphold it and to hand out justice to those who were found wanting. In his own eyes, he was a condemned man. He deserved to burn.

But then d'Artagnan had burst in and carried him out. He had saved Athos, and not just from a burning building.

Athos had knelt on the wet grass and poured out his heart to him. He had told him his darkest secrets and he had pushed him away. But he had remained, resilient and stubborn, quiet but firm. Athos had broken down in his arms then, crying tears he had held onto for five years until his eyes ran dry and he passed out from sheer exhaustion.

He had woken up in an unfamiliar bed, a wet cloth on his forehead, a glass of water on a small table beside him and d'Artagnan fast asleep, propped up against the bed with his head on his knees. His head was splitting and there had been smoke in his lungs. But he was satisfied. Finally someone would see him for the monster that he was.

But d'Artagnan had looked at him, helping him up and handing him the glass of water and instead of the disgust and repulsion he had expected, all Athos had seen was the same respect in his eyes, burning now with a greater intensity than before.

Athos had been baffled. He hadn't been able to stop himself from asking then. "Why?"

Why had d'Artagnan saved him? Why was he still here? Why did he still respect him, a broken shadow of a man?

And d'Artagnan had looked at him and understood the question. "Because you are a friend."

Athos hadn't been able to meet his eyes then, his own flooding with tears that had nothing to do with heartbreak and betrayal and everything to do with gratitude and affection. D'Artagnan had afforded him his moment of weakness, again without judgment or even pity.

On their way back to Paris Athos had talked. He had talked like he hadn't in years, about everything and nothing. He had told the young man riding beside him about his childhood growing up in a mansion full of servants and a bustling town where everybody knew and loved him. He had told him about hunting with his brother Thomas, and how they young man had looked up to him. He had talked about how he had joined the musketeers having proven himself by saving Captain Treville's life. He had told him of the young woman whom he had saved from bandits while on patrol; he had told him of how she had been the most beautiful lady he had ever seen and how he had fallen in love with her giving her his heart, his hand in marriage and his name. He had told him of the days after, when he had been the happiest man alive with the woman he loved. He had told him of inconsequential things, of silly things, and d'Artagnan had listened. He had not offered empty, meaningless words of comfort, he had simply listened in silence.

As they had neared the palace and spied upon the Spanish agent whose trail they had been following, Athos had felt lighter than he had felt in years. He knew there was no need for him to ask d'Artagnan to keep all that they had talked about to themselves but he did so anyway.

_"D'Artagnan, say nothing to the others of what happened."_

And d'Artagnan had simply nodded, unhesitant. _"You have my word."_

Athos had known many great men in his life. His father, the captain, his friends, he would lay down his life for them. All these men had made an impression on him.

But he suspected he would never meet a man as great as d'Artagnan. The man who gave his loyalty without question, the man who was a friend before anything else. Yes, Athos trusted Aramis and Porthos with his life. But it was young d'Artagnan who had his confidence.

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><p><em>Thoughts? <em>


	2. All The Right Friends

Chapter 2: All the Right Friends.

"I don't… exactly see…. the purpose behind this exercise." D'Artagnan had to shout to be heard over the pounding of the rain and his own blood in his ears as he jogged behind the trotting horse.

"If you can still talk, we aren't doing this right," Aramis turned to flash him a grin before urging his horse to go faster. D'Artagnan swore profusely under his breath and jogged a little faster to keep up.

D'Artagnan had had the pleasure of being woken up at dawn by a far too cheerful Aramis to 'go for a run, feel the morning air, it really is quite exhilarating.'

What he had not been told was that he was the only one who would be running. Aramis was happily riding on his horse, urging it faster and faster until it was at a steady gallop with d'Artagnan struggling to keep up behind him.

Two miles in and it had started raining. D'Artagnan was sure this was payback. For… something. He couldn't remember when he had done something so drastic to Aramis to warrant this kind of punishment. It wasn't his fault the lady at the bar last night had seemed more interested in him than the musketeer despite the 'Aramis charm' being on at full blast. D'Artagnan grinned at the memory.

They went on in silence for another twenty minutes, d'Artagnan focusing on taking deep breaths and being careful on where to put his feet on the wet forest terrain. They were on a rarely used path, and d'Artagnan wondered how much further they were going to go. He was about to ask when he spied a small cottage in a small clearing a little further ahead.

"Ah! Here we are," Aramis said, turning around to make sure he hadn't fallen behind. Or died. "C'mon now, it's just a short distance more."

D'Artagnan merely grunted, too out of breathe to be any more eloquent than that and kept up. They reached the cottage a few minutes later, and d'Artagnan was surprised to see three horses tied outside, and a light shining through the windows. "Are we meeting someone here?" he asked Aramis who had gotten down from his horse and was tying it alongside the other three.

"Yes," Aramis said, "Now get in before you get entirely wet."

"I think…" d'Artagnan said, his teeth chattering, "it is a little late for that."

Aramis said nothing but grasped his elbow and, procuring a key from his coat, opened the door and led him inside.

"Who lives…?" the question died on d'Artagnan's tongue on finding Athos and Porthos seated comfortably near the inviting fire which was burning merrily in the fireplace. It wasn't a large cottage, a single room with a table, four chairs, and a settee. But it was not wet, there wasn't any chilling wind and there was a fire. D'Artagnan would have thought he was in heaven if not for his confusion at finding the other two musketeers there.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, suppressing a shiver.

Athos stood up and came to help him out of his wet clinging clothes. "There are dry clothes over there," he said pointing to a corner where d'Artagnan could make out a bag. "Get changed. Breakfast is ready."

D'Artagnan shook his head but went without any further argument, the promise of dry clothing overriding any need for getting some sort of explanation to what possible objective his three friends had for bringing him here.

Aramis too was getting rid of his wet cloak and placing it near the fire to dry off when Athos joined him. "So how did he do?" he asked quietly.

"Not too bad." Aramis replied. "He kept up throughout, did not complain more than once and as you can see no injuries or mishaps occurred."

"That is more than I can say for the two of you." Athos reminded him, grinning. The run through the rain was a common training exercise for those in the regiment who were deemed worthy of being trained to become musketeers; supposedly encouraging perseverance in the face of danger and building up stamina.

Athos remembered when the three of them were led through miles of forest by an older musketeer, Francis Isaac, along with several other men. The difference had been that he had left them in the middle of the forest halfway through and galloped away. They had had to find their own way back, cold, wet, exhausted and hungry. Some of the men had wandered off hoping to find a trail and had gotten lost, not being heard from for several days. The three of them, Athos, Porthos and Aramis had remained together, Athos acting as an impromptu leader, and they had made their way back without a lot of trouble. Later they had learned that several of the men had gotten attacked by bandits and had been killed.

Athos had decided that they did not need such extreme methods to teach their young friend about perseverance. The stubborn lad had enough determination to follow through with a hastily thrown plan of joining a renegade servant to stop him from blowing up the palace, and had gotten out of it relatively unscathed; though Athos had had a minor aneurism when he had told them how close he had come to getting blown to smithereens.

No, such harsh methods were not necessary. But the run itself could not be faulted with; it was a solid exercise. Thus he had acquired this small cottage in the middle of the forest, for a few days and he and Porthos had gotten up early to get here before the other two with clothes and breakfast.

D'Artagnan joined them near the fire and Porthos vacated the seat nearest to it for the young man who took it with a grateful nod. "So I take it that this was the dreaded run that the other guards were talking about?" he asked perceptively.

Athos nodded handing him a bowl of hot soup before serving the others.

"Then aren't you supposed to let me get lost in the middle of the forest and leave me to find my way back?" he asked, taking a sip of the delicious soup. It had been cooked by Porthos, no doubt. Out of all three, he was the one with the best culinary skills, a fact that, though he was teased about mercilessly, he still took pride in.

"Feel free to go out and get lost to your heart's content," Porthos suggested, smirking.

He and Aramis shared a grin before the latter explained, "Traditionally, yes we are supposed to do that. It helps build up your survival skills and all that."

"But?" d'Artagnan prompted.

"But you looked too much like a drowned puppy and we have a heart." Aramis continued, grinning.

Athos chuckled. "Besides with luck like yours we figured you wouldn't die even when an enemy pointed a musket at your face and fired, so what the hell…" he gestured towards the room, "might as well throw in a breakfast and a change of clothes and call it a day."

D'Artagnan looked at the three of them sitting around the fire and smiled. It definitely paid to be on a first name basis with the same men who were responsible for training him.

Friends in high places and all that.


	3. Out of the Fire

_**A/N:** A small scene at the end of episode 2 'Sleight of Hand.' I couldn't have been the only one who thought that d'Artagnan managed to shrug off his very close encounter with death so easily. A little comfort wouldn't hurt anyone._

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><p>Out of the Fire.<p>

"_I should have strangled you at the Chatelet, saved myself a lot of trouble."_

"_Why didn't you?" _

"_For the fun of it." _

It was over. The king and queen were safe. Vadim was killed. The items of the treasury were recovered and all was well.

It was over.

The evening air hit d'Artagnan's face as they stood on the rocky beach, the musketeers sheathing their swords. Aramis knelt to say a quick prayer over the dead man's body and it sank in for d'Artagnan. He was alive.

But only because some lunatic had thought it would be fun to see how far he could take a trick.

His hands started trembling, his vision blurred and his breathe came in rapid gasps. He bent down, hoping the panic would subside before his weakness was noticed by the musketeers who seemed completely unaffected and at ease. He did not want to appear weary or worse, afraid in front of them.

But it seemed that his body had finally caught up with the exhaustion of being on edge for two days. The adrenaline was fading and the reality of his very close encounter with death was settling in. His closed his eyes as his knees gave out and he would have fallen if not for a pair of strong arms which caught him and lowered him to the ground slowly.

"Shh, shh, it's okay. You're okay. It's over." Aramis murmured in his ear, "Come on, breath."

D'Artagnan blushed, ashamed to meet the musketeer's eyes. He knew he should straighten himself out, but his body seemed to seek the comfort that Aramis's presence was promising and his shoulders sagged. His breathe started evening out as he copied Aramis who was breathing deeply. But the trembling and the pounding of blood in his ears wouldn't subside.

"I'm sorry. I am…" d'Artagnan sought out Athos, the man whose regard and trust he had hoped to win by succeeding in this mission. The older musketeer was standing nearby, looking at him with concern and worry. D'Artagnan looked away, mortified at how feeble his voice sounded. "I couldn't get out of the ropes fast enough and stop the fuse…"

"D'Artagnan you did good. Now look at me." Aramis held his chin in his hand and did not let go until d'Artagnan met his eyes. "I need to see if you have a concussion from that nice gash you have on your head."

Athos came over and knelt beside the pair on the ground. "How is he?"

"He has a concussion, he has lost a lot of blood and…" Aramis fell silent as he caught sight of d'Artagnan's hands, which he had been clutching between his knees to stop them from shaking. He grasped them softly and lifted them up so he could inspect the damage.

His wrists were completely shredded, colored a dirty purple and an angry red in places while bleeding sluggishly in others. Aramis looked horrified and even Athos gasped. It was the latter who managed to put into question what all three of them were thinking: "What happened?"

D'Artagnan tried to shake free his hands and brush it off. He did not need their pity.

"Would you stop being a stubborn idiot for a minute and let Aramis take care of that?" Athos snapped at him sharply.

"Athos, calm down." Porthos advised from behind him. "The lad has been through enough. He does not need you screaming at him right now."

"God!" Athos sighed exasperatedly and stood up, taking a step back. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his face. "You want me to calm down? I told you people this was a bad idea. _What were we thinking?" _

D'Artagnan winced, Athos's words cutting deeper than those ropes had managed to. Aramis saw it and frowned. "Don't worry about Athos. He hasn't slept in two days, worried sick about how you were doing. And that's just how he gets whenever one of his men are hurt on a mission."

Porthos had torn off a clean piece of his tunic and was giving strips of it to Aramis who tied them around d'Artagnan's wrists. D'Artagnan tried to stifle the gasps of pain but Aramis heard them anyway. He winced sympathetically.

"I'm sorry, but if I don't wrap these cuts until I can put some salve on them, the cuts will fester and that would not be pretty." He looked at Athos and beckoned him over. "Can you hold his arms while I tie these together?"

Athos nodded and knelt beside d'Artagnan who despite the earlier admonishment tried once again to explain himself "I am sorry the mission went so wrong. I should have known he was playing me and tricking me into giving you wrong information. He had me tied to the barrels with the gunpowder and I managed to stop one fuse but there were so many of them, and then by the time I got free, it was too late and he almost got away and… -."

He trailed away noticing the horror on Athos's face. He looked at Aramis and Porthos for support but found equally horrified expressions adorning each of their faces too. He gulped, realizing that he had probably ruined all his chances of getting into their good graces now.

Athos's voice was deceptively calm as he asked, "He tied you to the barrels of gunpowder?"

D'Artagnan refused to look at him and silently nodded. Aramis took in a sharp breath and Porthos swore quietly beside him.

"Aramis did you pray for that vermin's soul to find rest?" Athos asked, trying not to think of the haunted look in the young Gascon's eyes or the terror he must have felt tied to tons of gunpowder, waiting to be blown up.

Aramis's own hands were shaking as he tied the last strips into loose but firm knots. He nodded, not letting go of d'Artagnan's hands. "I did, though God would probably understand if I don't feel very charitable right now and want to damn him to the darkest confines of hell."

"Aye, I wish he wasn't so dead right now, just so that I could run him through myself." Porthos's voice was gruff, "repeatedly."

Athos nodded in agreement and took a deep breathe. "D'Artagnan, I am going to say this once so you listen to me very carefully." He waited until d'Artagnan looked at him and met his eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You did very well. We had no right to ask this much of you. You are not trained to handle such situations and yet you managed to get out. You proved your bravery and loyalty today and I am proud of you."

D'Artagnan looked at him and blinked, the meaning of what he was saying slowly dawning on him. "But I didn't stop the explosions, the destruction…"

Athos smiled. "You are allowed to destroy a few things every now and then, you are allowed to break a few rules and do whatever you need to do to get out alive." His voice suddenly became hard and all traces of mirth disappeared from his face as he gripped the front of d'Artagnan's shirt. "The only thing you are not allowed to do, under any circumstance, is die. Not on my watch, not now, not _ever_. Is that understood?"

D'Artagnan looked at the older man and understood him perfectly. The concern and relief in his eyes said all that he did not put into words clearly. He nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady if he tried to speak. Athos searched his face for confirmation that he had indeed gotten the message and then satisfied, let him go. He shook his head and stood up.

"Right, Porthos go on ahead and get three horses ready to get back to the barracks. Aramis, get his other hand." He gestured before grasping one of d'Artagnan's hands and slinging it over his shoulders, his own arm going around his waist, pulling him up from where he was sitting on the rocks.

D'Artagnan let out a surprised and extremely unmanly yelp which made Aramis snicker even as he took his other hand and carried the rest of his weight. "I can walk on my own, I am not some damsel in distress," he protested petulantly.

"Are you sure about that?" Aramis asked. "You wouldn't look out of place in a dress."

D'Artagnan tried to glare at him but just then another wave of exhaustion overcame him and his world tilted. The grip on his waist became tighter, and Athos glared at Aramis until the latter started walking quietly.

"You probably are just stubborn enough to make it back without help, even in your condition." Athos said softly. "But what you need to learn is that as long as even one of us is around, you don't _need_ to."

No more words were exchanged after that. None were needed.

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><p><em>Don't be a silent lurker. Drop a word. And give me ideas, please. I don't want to stop writing but the ideas I have aren't really in my grasp right now.<em>


	4. The Call of Duty

**A/N:** Tag to episode 4: The Good Soldier. Aramis is in severe need of a hug at the end isn't he?

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><p>The Call of Duty.<p>

Aramis was a man of many passions. He believed in living in the present and following his heart.

Athos called him impetuous and rash, Porthos called him a fool. He was all of that, and none of that. He gave everything he had to what he believed in, no matter the consequences. His friends had his complete loyalty, his duty had his absolute devotion and even the women he loved had his undivided attention and affection while he was with them.

He did not believe in doing things half way.

He would jest and laugh at his friends and he would fight anyone who insults them to the death. He would lay with any woman who caught his eye but he would love her as she deserves. He would flirt with the queen, much to the amused horror of Porthos, but he would also throw himself on a bomb for her sake.

That was what made him a great friend, a formidable foe and a fearless musketeer.

But that was also his greatest weakness.

He could not shrug off the guilt of surviving a massacre which had claimed the lives of his fellow musketeers. He could not understand Adele's choice to leave when she claimed that she loved him. He could not fathom betraying his friends or his king.

That was why his world had come crashing down when he had learnt of the captain's betrayal. A man whom he trusted and looked up to, a man whom he would die for, so callously playing with his life and the lives of those like him.

Athos wrote it off as lies, Porthos refused to believe it and even young d'Artagnan questioned the accusation. But to Aramis it was unfathomable. And he hated himself for thinking it. But it made perfect sense.

Yet for all his impetuosity and hot headedness he was a man of the law. He did not go in guns blazing and challenge the man to a duel like his honor and the cries of his fallen comrades demanded. He had given his life to the system and he would look to it for justice. It did not occur to him that the king would be in on it, that there was no justice to be had, and that the whole ordeal had already been written off as a misunderstanding by the cardinal.

But he understood Marsac's actions even if he did not condone them.

The ball from his musket may have hit Marsac in the chest but it killed him. A friend who had fought by his side and looked death in the eye, who had pulled him out of the chaos of battle when he had fallen, who had tended to him when he was unable, such a man did not deserve death by his hand. He would rather turn the musket on himself, but duty called and it was in his blood to answer.

When Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan had returned from once again saving the country's peace and the king's honor, they found a desolate Aramis sitting in the darkness of his room, his head bowed and the musket that had taken his friend's life clutched tightly in his hands. Their laughter had died down and their smiles had been wiped off. Athos and Porthos had looked at each other and silently debated doing something.

But it was d'Artagnan who had knelt in front of him and placed a hand on his knee until Aramis looked at him. He had taken the musket from him and kept it away.

"He saved my life, and I killed him." Aramis had whispered. And he had wept, he had broken down completely, surrounded by the three men who would not begrudge him his weakness. They had sat with him through it all, silently offering him comfort and support.

When the tears had subsided and he was drained of all emotion, Athos had placed a hand on his shoulder and spoken slowly and clearly, as if talking to a scared animal.

"You are not to blame, my friend."

And Aramis had believed him.

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><p><em>Thoughts?<em>


	5. Disgraced Part 1

**A/N:** I swear I was going to do a crack piece about how Aramis's obsession with his pistol, but that didn't really cut it from me. (Anyone wanting a prompt, please I would really like to see that happen)  
>Then Something Bad happened and I got into a mood where I like to hurt people. I started typing and this came out. I'm sorry. This is in no sense of the word a drabble, as a reviewer pointed out my drabbles are anyway too long to be called such. This is more like a complete story, but I'll do it in three parts.<p>

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><p>Athos, Porthos and Aramis arrived at the musketeer barracks to find a large crowd assembled. All the guards were present, their friend d'Artagnan included, and they were all standing in neat organized rows, taking up most of the space in the courtyard.<p>

"I didn't know Gerard had a training exercise scheduled today," Porthos said.

"He doesn't. Not that I know of." Athos agreed, making his way to their usual place at the table which had been pushed to the side today. "Must be one of his surprise inspections."

"Probably," Aramis agreed, the three of them sitting down. "Ah look, here he comes."

Gerard Bronx, Captain of the Red Guards was a big beefy man with an obnoxious voice who had all the pomp and none of the valor of a musketeer. He was exactly the sort of man that Athos went out of his way to avoid, having no patience for their misinformed sense of self-importance.

He strode over to the head of the unit assembled, pausing to make sure that he had the attention of not only his men but also the musketeers who were lounging around waiting for their orders, and started pacing at the head of the line, before addressing his men.

"It has been brought to my attention that some of you are not carrying yourself with the proper conduct that is required of one who wears the uniform of a red guard." He paused, his sharp eyes taking in any movement from the soldiers, none of whom gave anything away. He stopped right in front of d'Artagnan, who stood with his head held high and his eyes forward.

"Boy, there are rumors that you spent all of last night in the tavern," Gerard shouted, his face so close to d'Artagnan's that the spit flying out of his mouth landed on the taller man's chin. "Is this true?"

"Yes sire, but – " d'Artagnan started to explain that he had not been drinking at all, rather he had been there to make sure Athos got back home safely after drinking himself into a stupor.

"Answer yes or no, boy!" Gerard shouted.

Athos gripped the handle of the cup that he was holding. He could tell that Gerard knew very well why d'Artagnan was at the tavern. He could also tell that the obnoxious man did not care in the slightest.

D'Artagnan must have realized the same thing because he swallowed and spoke after a moment's hesitation, his voice ringing clear in the courtyard which had suddenly became very quiet. "Yes sire."

"And were you late this morning in reporting to your duties?"

Aramis inhaled sharply. This morning he had seen d'Artagnan making his way to the barracks and asked him to fetch him a salve from the apothecary's first, for the wound that Porthos had sustained on their last mission, two days ago. He himself had been rather busy with a particularly lovely lady whom he had met last night and the poor lad had obeyed his request.

Again d'Artagnan could not deny the accusation. "Yes sire."

There was a particularly nasty look on Gerard's face that Athos did not like in the slightest. "And were you staggering when you first entered the barracks?" he asked.

D'Artagnan frowned. He _had_ been limping slightly but that was only because he had ran to the barracks from Aramis's home so that he wouldn't be late and the gash on his leg that he had received on their last mission had started throbbing painfully. Again the question wasn't one he could deny, though he strongly suspected that the captain meant that he was drunk. "Yes sire, but… - "

"Silence, boy!" Gerard snarled. "You disrespect the code of behavior that is expected of you, go around acting like a vagabond and have the audacity to talk back at your superiors? This will not be tolerated!"

Gerard faced the entire assembly before him, "An example shall be set. We do not tolerate those who shirk from duty and tarnish the image of the King's Guards. This boy will be whipped in public in front of a full assembly at noon. Let this serve as a warning to all of you."

Athos and Porthos had risen up from their seats in protest but Aramis stopped them by grabbing each of their arms. "Challenge him now in front of everyone and you will be doing d'Artagnan no favor."

"Let go of me." Athos shook off the hand and turned to look of him. "I am not going to challenge that foul man, I am going to speak to the captain about this. He knows very well that d'Artagnan is not one to shirk from duty and he will not let him suffer this disgrace." There was an almost manic look of anger on Athos's face.

"Well in that case," Aramis said, standing up too. "Lead the way."

The three of them could feel all eyes on them as they made their way upstairs to Captain Treville's office. Aramis caught a glimpse of d'Artagnan, whose face remained impassive and expressionless but who followed their movements with his eyes.

"You are al dismissed. Go back to you training and assemble here at noon sharp." Gerard instructed his men, and the crowd dispersed. D'Artagnan quietly made his way to where his sword and armor were kept, receiving sympathetic glances from the other musketeers and catching a few smug looks on the other guard's faces. He had known that receiving the attentions of the three of the most elite musketeers would not sit well with a lot of people, but he hadn't realized things could get so bad.

Still he did not allow himself to panic, knowing that Athos and the others would sort out the matter with the Captain, and he would surely not have to suffer the disgrace of a public whipping.

_A public whipping!_ Like some common criminal!

D'Artagnan took deep breathes to calm himself, loosening the tight fist he hadn't realized he had formed. No, that would surely not be allowed to happen. This was all some sort of political payback, he supposed. Because Gerard was well aware that there wasn't a single one of the guards who worked harder at their jobs than him.

He chided himself for worrying. He knew his friends would come through for him.

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><p><em>I know I am mean to poor d'Artagnan, but he is adorably delicious to whump. I'll update tomorrow, it's 4 in the morning here and I need to sleep.<br>So what do you think?_


	6. Disgraced Part 2

**A/N**: _As promised, the early morning update. :)_

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><p>Captain Treville looked up from his desk as the three of his best men burst into his room. Even though he had been fully expecting it, the ferocity of emotion on their faces startled him, a little. Never had he seen Athos so guilt stricken, Aramis so ashamed and Porthos so adamant.<p>

"Gentlemen, I believe there is a habit we practice. It's called knocking." He stood up, folding his arms, the picture of calm and composed.

Aramis strode forward. "Sire, d'Artagnan is to be whipped!"

"Aye, that oaf Gerard intends to set an example of him. You have to stop him." Porthos, the man who never spoke when Aramis and Athos were present to do the talking, spoke up.

Athos remained quiet and it was at him that Treville looked, eyebrows raised. Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes for an instance before looking at him. "You knew of this."

Captain Treville nodded as Aramis and Porthos looked at first Athos and then at him, aghast. "What do you mean?" Aramis asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Gerard is perfectly within his rights to punish behavior such as d'Artagnan's and he did formally complain to me first earlier today." He looked at each of them before continuing. "There is nothing I can do about it, the matter is out of my hands."

"But sire!" Aramis exclaimed. "D'Artagnan is not to blame for all that he has been accused of. He did spend the night in the tavern but that was because he was accompanying Athos. And he was late because he had gone to the apothecary to get the salve Porthos needed. And I don't know why he didn't deny it when Gerard accused him of being drunk, because I talked to him earlier and he was most certainly sober."

"His injury." Athos said quietly. Aramis turned towards him, confused. "He got injured in the leg remember? It must have been acting up and causing him to limp."

Porthos grunted in disgust. "Gerard is twisting the facts and presenting him so that d'Artagnan looks like a drunken fool. He did not even give the lad a chance to explain."

"Enough!" The sharply spoken word was enough to silence all three men, and Treville glared at each of them in turn. "Tell me if he not to blame for his actions, then who is?"

The three musketeers looked at the ground, shamefaced. "We are." Athos admitted quietly.

"Precisely." Captain Treville said. "Do you realize the error of your ways? You have been using d'Artagnan with no thought of his other duties. Athos, do you remember how many nights you spent drinking at the tavern when you were only a guard?"

"None."

"And yet is falls up to young d'Artagnan to pull you out of the pub every night." He turned to Aramis. "And I can only imagine why you didn't have enough time to go to the apothecary yourself, and got the lad to go in your stead."

Aramis blushed and did not meet his eyes. "You gentlemen forget that he does not have a noble house backing him up, nor is he responsible for any of you. His loyalty to his friends stop him from denying you anything but you do not think before exploiting your friendship with him."

There was complete silence in the office following the captain's admonishments. Finally, after a long time Athos and Aramis shared a look and both of them nodded. It was Athos who spoke. "Sire, we accept that Aramis and I are to blame for d'Artagnan's actions. Please order us be punished instead of him."

Treville had expected swearing and angry threats and harsh words. He had even prepared himself for things to be thrown around. But the look of utter remorse on Athos's and Aramis's faces shocked him into silence. He considered their request, but then shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot allow that."

He raised up a hand to silence the protest that was sure to follow. "I am glad that you understand the consequences of your behavior towards d'Artagnan but I cannot overrule Gerard's judgment. It would undermine his position and make him appear weak in the eyes of his men. Furthermore it would give the other soldiers the idea that d'Artagnan is shown preference over them and that would not be fair for the young man in question."

"Yes but so what?" Porthos came forward. "If he is shown preference it is because he is twice the man any of those noble twits are!"

"There is nothing you can do?" Aramis was almost begging now, and Treville looked away. He did not like this any more than the three men standing in front of him. D'Artagnan was a fine man who did not deserve this at all.

"No, I am sorry but your only hope is that d'Artagnan has it in his heart to forgive you three."

"How many lashes?" Athos asked quietly.

"Thirty." There was a collective intake of breathe at the answer before Athos nodded and gestured to the other two.

"Come on, we have to go talk to him," he said and nodding at the captain turned and walked out of the office followed by the other two.

One look at their faces had been enough to tell d'Artagnan that they had failed in their talk with the captain. His shoulders sagged and he leaned against the wall in the armory, the reality of his situation hitting him with full force.

"We are very _very_ sorry." Athos said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

The anguish and regret in his voice told d'Artagnan everything he needed to know about what had transpired in the captain's office. He swallowed once, twice and took a deep breathe. His friends were not at fault. He would bear his punishment with whatever remaining dignity it afforded him.

"You are not to blame. It's okay," he said, thanking the heavens that he sounded braver than he felt.

Aramis looked at him startled. "But we are! If not for us you wouldn't be in this predicament right now."

"We tried to get the captain to punish us instead of you, but he said that that would undermine Gerard's position and make it look like he was favoring you." Athos told him.

D'Artagnan nodded, touched that Athos would consider that, though he himself would never have allowed his friends to get punished in his stead. They had far more to lose than him.

He had also expected that there would be a political aspect to the whole thing. He placed a hand on Athos's shoulder and squeezed. "Hey, it's alright. I understand. You did all you could." He managed a small smile. "I'll just look at it as a new experience. What do you keep saying about character building, Aramis?"

Aramis chuckled ruefully and shook his head. "You might not feel so charitable towards us after…" he trailed off.

"Nonsense." D'Artagnan proclaimed. "Now tell me you have some mission to take care of until noon. I don't want to sit around and play at swords with _that_ to look forward to." He shuddered, only half in exaggeration. "And for god's sake stop looking so mournful all of you. I'm going to be whipped, not shot!"

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><p><em>Oh the next chapter is sooo heart breaking. I am sorry in advance. <em>

_I'm starting to feel neglected here guys, you don't write, you don't review, don't you love me anymore? :P_


	7. Disgraced Part 3

**A/N**: I really am sorry for all that I put young d'Artagnan through.

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><p>Disgraced: Part 3<p>

D'Artagnan had managed to put up a brave face in front of his friends. They were feeling terrible and he did not need to add to their guilt, however misplaced it was.

But he was far from okay. His stomach was churning at the thought of the rapidly approaching noon and his inevitable punishment. He was to be dealt thirty lashes.

_Thirty lashes! _

He stood facing the door, his shirt off at Gerard's order, his hands clenched into tight fists. He could hear the murmuring crowd outside, and he held his head high. No matter how bad it was, he would go through with as much grace as he could. He had never been a particularly religious man, but right now he prayed fervently that the ordeal not strip him of his dignity as brutally as it had stripped him of his clothes.

The door opened at the stroke of noon and the executioner who had specially been called to handle the punishment beckoned him forward. D'Artagnan took one last long breathe before steeling himself. He walked out with his head held high.

The bright sunlight after the dark room blinded him for a moment and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. He looked at the number of people gathered, shocked. There were several musketeers present along with a full assembly of the guards. It looked like anyone who wasn't on a mission had made their way to the ground. His eyes sought out the familiar faces of his friends, half hoping that they hadn't come: he didn't want them to see him disgraced in such a way, but he didn't want to be alone in a sea of strangers either; he did not see them until he was standing on the small platform which had been put up in the middle.

They were standing right in the front, and d'Artagnan met their eyes as his hands were lifted and tied to the two poles. Aramis and Porthos looked away, but Athos held his gaze, as if not affording himself the luxury of turning away from a friend's pain.

D'Artagnan took solace from the surety that Athos's eyes on him provided.

"Begin!"

The loud order was preceded swiftly by the first lash. For a blessed moment, d'Artagnan did not feel anything.

And then there was _pain_.

A hot sizzling wave of pain which left him gasping and brought tears to his eyes.

"One," the executioner called out.

D'Artagnan steeled himself, remembering his promise. He grit his teeth and blinked away the tears, raising his head. However, he couldn't stop his back muscles from tensing as the whip came down a second time with a terrible _crack_.

He kept himself focused on Athos's face, and when after the next few lashes the pain became too much and he had to close his eyes, he pictured him in his mind's eye. He wanted to scream, to curse, to weep and beg for the pain to _stop_.

But he didn't do all that. Not as long as Athos was watching.

He wrapped the rope tying his hands to the poles a few times around his arm so that all his weight wouldn't fall on his wrists if his legs gave out and he counted.

There were murmurs first, which turned into whispers which turned into voices. Voices full of scorn, disgust and in some cases amazement. D'Artagnan tuned it all out as he focused on breathing. The whip came down a few more times and his legs gave out.

His back was on fire, his head bowed, his feet refused to remain upright, his arms were burning from the strain and tears were flowing freely from his eyes; but he did not scream. Not a single sound passed his lips.

He did not know how long it was before the last lash fell on his back. Time had slowed down until all he was aware of was pain and more _pain_.

Gerard was talking and he could make out some words about this being a warning, about proper behavior and the fate of those who neglected their duties. He was aware that it was over and suddenly the ropes tying his arms and holding him up were cut off.

He would have slumped like a puppet without strings had two strong arms not caught him. He tried to fight them off, remembering his resolution to not show weakness.

"Hush hush son, it's me. It's okay. We've got you." Athos's soothing voice stilled his protests and he tilted his head towards it.

"Thos?" he mumbled, the name a request for help and a longing for warmth and safety all at once.

Athos must have understood for there was a cloak being draped over his shoulders and strong arms around his waist carrying his weight.

"Where are you taking him?" a harsh voice filtered through d'Artagnan's clouded senses and he subconsciously turned away seeking the comfort of a warm shoulder instead.

"Step away Gerard." Porthos's quite growl must have held enough promise of violence that Gerard moved away without any further protest. Porthos remained in the lead, parting the crowd and keeping the spectators at an arm's length while Athos and Aramis followed in his wake, carrying d'Artagnan between them.

It was by unspoken agreement that the four of them made their way to Aramis's quarters at the barracks where they gently lay d'Artagnan face down on the bed.

Aramis started collecting the supplies required to clean and dress his wounds. He looked at the other two who seemed at a complete loss, standing and staring at the young man on the bed. "Athos, get me a pail of clean water from the well downstairs. Porthos, open that cupboard and find me some bandages."

His brusque commands had the two men springing into action, while d'Artagnan mumbled incoherently. Aramis set about grinding a few herbs into a paste that would help the cuts to heal. He focused on the task at hand, not thinking about how he would give anything to not be patching up the young Gascon right now. Athos, Porthos and himself sustaining injuries in battle, he could handle. But when d'Artagnan was dealt his share of wounds and pain and Aramis had to take care of him, he found his hands shaking. There was something so incredibly innocent and _pure_ about the young man that he couldn't help the overwhelming urge to protect him from the cruelties of the world. And yet he himself had caused him to come to harm.

Aramis closed his eyes, blinking away the tears. He knew that d'Artagnan would forgive them, he probably already had. But he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to forgive himself. Causing the young man so much undeserved pain and disgrace was a sin he was going to do penance for for a long time to come.

"Here, where do you need the water?" Athos asked, having arrived with a bucket almost full to the brink. Aramis gestured for him to put it down near the bed and took the rolls of bandage Porthos offered. He got the bowl he had been mixing the salve in too and set both things down on the small table beside the bed.

Aramis lifted the cloak that Athos had draped over d'Artagnan's shoulders to preserve some of his dignity and all three of them gasped at the sight of his back. It was bloody with angry red cuts and welts. There were several deep gashes which were bleeding freely where the whip must have landed more than once on the same spot, completely tearing away the skin. Aramis couldn't stop the tears from streaking down his face or the choked sob which escaped.

He looked up when Porthos grasped his shoulder. "Pull yourself together, friend," he said, roughly. "He needs our help right now, not our tears."

Aramis nodded. "Athos, I am going to wash these cuts with some saline water. It will sting and he will try to move so I need you to hold him still."

Athos looked stricken at causing the injured man even more pain, but nodded resolutely. Aramis took a cloth and dipped it in the bucket he had added salt to before rubbing it over the shallower cuts. D'Artagnan gasped and his back would have arched but Athos held him down with a firm hand.

"I'm sorry lad, I'm sorry," he whispered softly, combing a hand through the younger man's hair who completely relaxed into his touch. "It's going to be okay, I've got you."

Aramis continued to wash his back but apart from a few gasps when the wet cloth hit the deeper cuts, d'Artagnan did not protest again. The Gascon's trust in him brought Athos to his knees. He had done nothing but put d'Artagnan's life in danger from the first moment he had dueled with him in the courtyard to getting him whipped mercilessly for no fault of his own. And yet one word from him and the boy gave up any struggle completely.

"Never met anyone like him." Porthos said, quietly. "I don't think I could have gone through _that_ like he did."

Aramis nodded in agreement. "I would have been a weeping wreck halfway through. Anyone would have at least let out a scream, but him…" he trailed off, opting to concentrate on putting thread into needle to sew some of the deeper gashes shut.

Athos sighed. "He is indeed one of a kind," he said, brushing away a few strands of stray hair that had fallen over the young man's closed eyes. He paused when he noticed a small smile on the young man's face, and he shook his head in fond amusement. "Stubborn as a mule, he probably thought he looked really tough."

He was rewarded by a petulant pout and a barely audible, "I'm not a mule, you're a mule." Athos continued combing through his hair, smiling affectionately.

"He's conscious?" Aramis asked, surprised. He looked at where the needle was piercing the skin every time he put in another stich and shuddered. The Gascon apparently had a _very_ high pain threshold. That, or he was too far gone to care.

"Barely," Athos replied, "Like I said, stubborn as a mule."

Aramis smiled softly, though the haunted look did not completely disappear from his eyes and Porthos chuckled.

They worked in silence after that, the only sound in the room being Athos's soothing humming and the occasional sharp intake of air from d'Artagnan. It wasn't until the last cut was bandaged that Aramis helped the young man sit up and fed him some water. D'Artagnan blanched at the thought of eating something, but took the sleeping draught Aramis offered without complaint.

It was a very careful Athos who lowered him back on the bed facedown again, shifting the pillows so that he did not pull the stiches by turning over in his sleep. He remained seated on the floor beside the bed having discovered that his moving away caused d'Artagnan to start mumbling in his sleep and drifted off to sleep himself.

XXX

"The next person who says 'I'm sorry' or any variation of the aforementioned statement henceforth would be buying the next round of beer."

"That was awfully formal." Athos said, grinning.

"I've been taught that it pays to be polite." D'Artagnan replied cheekily, glancing at Aramis who raised his glass to him.

A week later, all four of them were at the tavern, drinking to d'Artagnan's recovery. There had been a short ceremony before they had set out when Athos had presented a written permission to 'go out with his most esteemed friends and get completely and utterly wasted.' It was signed by Captain Treville. D'Artagnan still hadn't managed to find out what the three of them had done to get him to sign that very useful piece of paper, which had a lot of future potential.

But he had had enough of the apologetic faces and the heartfelt speeches. He had written off the whole ordeal as a thing of the past which he would rather not linger on but every contrite look was reminding him of it.

"Well in that case," Porthos said, holding out a hand to signal the barkeeper for more drinks, "have I told you how completely and utterly sorry I am for what happened?"

D'Artagnan groaned and let his head hit the table while all three of them chuckled.

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><p>AN: Thoughts? I promise the next 'drabble' would be of the light humorous variety. :)


	8. Drunken Adventures

A/N: This is dedicated to the very wonderful FlyingMachine1 who gave me the prompt 'While Athos and D'Artagnan are out drinking, someone insults D'Artgnan and Athos doesn't take to kindly to that.' I know I haven't replied to your lovely, expressive reviews but I wrote you a drabble instead to make up for it. :)

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><p>The Drunken Adventures of Athos and d'Artagnan.<p>

Usually it would have been the other way around, but for once Athos was not complaining about not getting enough to drink. He had made his way to the tavern with the sole intention of drinking himself into oblivion, and soon after he had been joined by young d'Artagnan.

There wasn't anything out of the ordinary there. Ever since he had pulled him out of that blasted fire, d'Artagnan had been keeping an eye on Athos through his drunken broodings. Athos had resented the attention in the beginning, but then having seen the non-judgmental look in the Gascon's eyes and heard the quiet plea to just let him _be_ there for him, he had given in and acquiesced to his company.

But tonight d'Artagnan too had seemed to be in a foul mood. Athos had been curious enough to find out what had happened and had ordered strong wine for both of them, but had not touched his own. Sure enough, after only two glasses, d'Artagnan was telling him all about how Constance had been sporting a bruise on her cheek in the distinct shape of a handprint and how she wouldn't say anything when he asked about it and shouted at him instead for meddling in her affairs.

Athos had winced sympathetically – he did not envy the young man's inner turmoil of balancing his sense of honor with his undeniable attraction towards Constance – and he had ordered more wine. D'Artagnan had gone on to talk about inconsequential, silly things and Athos sat and listened, learning a great deal about the young Gascon boy.

Finally after a couple of hours when d'Artagnan had exhausted his desire to drown himself in wine and his endless repertoire of stories, Athos got up to pay the bar keeper and relieve himself before having to escort d'Artagnan home for the night.

D'Artagnan tried to protest when Athos hauled him to his feet and slung his arm over his own shoulders, ("I'm not some damn damsel in distress. Unhand me!"), at which point Athos let him go only to save him a second later from reintroducing his face to the table. The very drunk young man managed to look mortified and apart form a small huff, there were no more objections as Athos, being quite inexperienced in handling drunk flailing puppies, tried his best to manhandle him into an upright position and led him out of the pub.

They started to make their long way back to Athos's rooms, d'Artagnan not ready yet to face Constance's wrath. It was nearing midnight and apart from the guards and musketeers patrolling the streets, and the usual unsavory types, there weren't many people outside.

They passed a couple of musketeers and one of them called out, "Athos, have you nothing better to do than carry drunken idiots back home?"

Athos rolled his eyes at the jibe and grunted, shifting d'Artagnan's weight a little. "Sod off," he called out.

The musketeers laughed. "Really at the rate he keeps taking responsibility for these lost strays, he should think about getting married," the second one said, his voice carrying.

D'Artagnan made an indignant sound of protest, more likely on Athos's behalf than on being called a stray but Athos hushed him quietly. Now wasn't the time to go around picking fights over insulted pride. He had a drunken puppy to take care of.

They rounded the street corner and nearly walked into a small unit of guards coming from the other side. "My apologies, monsieur." One of them said, noticing Athos.

Athos merely grunted and kept walking, being very careful where their feet landed in the cobbled streets.

"God, it is unbelievable how that cocksucker has everyone wrapped around his fingers."

Athos froze.

D'Artagnan stumbled a little before noticing that he had stopped and Athos slowly lowered him down against the wall. "Stay here and don't move," he whispered to him.

Straightening up he turned around and rounded the corner again, calling out to the guards who were walking away. "Gentlemen, were you saying something?"

The guards stopped. "Nothing about you, monsieur," the same man who had apologized earlier said, his voice slick with forced politeness.

"Yes, but you were talking about my friend here." Athos started walking towards the men, his stance and voice deceptively calm and collected.

"We didn't say nothing that wasn't true," another one of them piped up.

"Aye, it's not our fault he is a smarmy little bootlicker who intends to sleep his way to the musketeer's garrison and…," the man speaking was suddenly cut off when he found a strong fist colliding with his face.

"Hey!" The man who had apologized earlier cast one look at his fallen friend and charged at Athos angrily.

Athos shot out an elbow which caught the advancing man in the throat and followed it with a solid punch to the gut. The big guard went down in a second. Athos ducked another one's poorly aimed swing and kicked out his legs from under him. Not waiting for the fourth man to attack first, he grabbed him by the lapels of his uniform and dug a knee in his groin which such force that the man crumpled without a sound.

A sound behind him caused him to turn. Another guard who had taken out a knife and had been about to attack him from behind staggered and fell, revealing d'Artagnan standing behind him with a stone in his upraised hand. The two men considered the groaning and moaning men around them and looked at each other.

"The next time any of you feel like opening your mouth to tarnish someone else's reputation, think deeply and carefully before doing so," Athos said, his voice ringing loud in the quiet street. D'Artagnan arched an eyebrow at him.

"What did I say about not being a damsel in distress?" he muttered, swaying on his feet. "I don't need you going around protecting my honor."

"Shut up," Athos told him, though he couldn't stop the smile on his lips as he slung the younger man's arm over his shoulders again. "I'm never letting you drink again," he promised.

D'Artagnan snickered. "Aw, I never knew you cared."

"You're awfully cheeky for someone who can't walk straight," Athos grumbled as they started walking again.

"It's not my fault." D'Artagnan murmured, burrowing into Athos's side, cold. "The floor is moving."

Athos shook his head, smiling fondly and wrapped his cloak around the younger man. D'Artagnan had helped carry enough of Athos's burdens in the short time that he had known him, without complaint. It was time Athos helped shouldered some of his own.

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><p><em>As always, I welcome any thoughts or ideas that you have. :)<em>


	9. The Art of Re-acquisitioning

**A/N:** This is dedicated to the lovely Raouldehadleyfraser who prompted it. Hope you like it. :)

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><p>The Art of Re-acquisitioning.<p>

D'Artagnan had a nervous tick. He had the habit of fingering the timepiece he kept on a small chain around his neck. Athos had groaned to himself when he had first deduced that, but everyone in the vicinity had just assumed that it had been his post hangover groan.

It hadn't.

It had been the groan of the man who had to beat it into Aramis's head to 'stop twirling that goddamn coin around like a big bloody sign showing that you are nervous', though lately that had turned into a cross which he had around his neck at all time; it had been the groan of the man who had to condition himself _not_ to clutch the necklace around his own neck when faced with sticky situations.

It had been a very expressive and verbose groan.

But he hadn't said anything to d'Artagnan about it yet. He had been going to, but then one drunken night d'Artagnan had told him that it had been a gift from his father and showed him the inscribed 'for you, my son' on the inner side.

After that Athos just didn't have the heart.

Besides he told himself, it wasn't like he would let d'Artagnan go into life threatening situations where a nervous tick can mean the difference between life and death alone. No, that certainly wasn't happening on his watch.

And that was why his eyebrows shot up and his musketeer-y senses started tingling when, having joined them for breakfast, d'Artagnan raised up his hand and then lowered it back again, looking stricken. "Where is your timepiece, boy?"

D'Artagnan noticed that he was staring and blushed. "Erm-," he said eloquently. "I was stopped by some men last night."

Athos deliberately set down the glass of wine he had been nursing and both Porthos and Aramis sat up straighter.

"Tell me." The quiet order spoken in a no nonsense tone had d'Artagnan gulping and nodding his head before launching into a description of how there had been four men dressed in tattered clothes who had cornered him, how he had been too tired to fight, (Athos had raised a disbelieving eyebrow and d'Artagnan had quickly amended his description), how he had still tried and landed a few punches, and how he had woken up an hour later after presumably being hit in the head, lying in the street with his pouch, sword and timepiece missing.

Aramis swore quietly on hearing about him losing consciousness, immediately getting up to scan his head for any injuries; and Porthos, who knew exactly how many unsavory types prowled the streets at night, sent a small prayer of thanks to the heavens for keeping the man from any further harm. Athos had remained silent letting Aramis do his work, one dark look silencing any protests from d'Artagnan that he was fine and they were over reacting. His mind however was working in overdrive.

"Describe the men to me," he said.

D'Artagnan scowled. "Why? I told you I'm fine, they didn't do much damage and took nothing of value. Besides it was dark and I didn't see much."

Athos was about to give him a piece of his mind about his casual disregard for his own preservation but a pointed look from Aramis killed the retort even before it was formed. He was dealing with wounded pride here and with d'Artagnan that was like a time bomb, and he had no desire to be in the damage zone when it blew.

"Try to remember whatever you can," he suggested in a far kinder tone. "Maybe it would help."

D'Artagnan frowned but like Athos had predicted, tried to recall the events of the night before. Someday Athos would teach him not to give in to him so easily, but that day was not today. Today he would manipulate whatever answers he could out of the Gascon.

"One of them was really big, I think I managed to punch him in the face. Another had a nasally voice, like as if he had a cold or something and there was a third man… He stank," d'Artagnan scrunched up his face in disgust. "I don't think he had ever had a bath in his life. I didn't see the fourth man, he was the one who came up from behind and knocked me out."

One look at Porthos had the man nodding and getting up. Athos looked at Aramis who shook his head. "No lasting damage done. There is some bruising but his skull is as thick as ever."

"Hey!" d'Artagnan protested, battling away Aramis's hands.

"You are going to go home and take the rest of the day off." Athos shot the young man a warning look when he made to argue, "Aramis will talk to the captain about it and he will give you some medicine. You will drink it and go straight to bed."

The mutinous look on d'Artagnan's face told Athos that he had no intention of obeying so he continued: "If you don't do exactly as I say, I would be dropping by later and telling the Lady Constance what happened," he arched a threatening eyebrow. "I am sure you would appreciate her concern and attentions."

D'Artagnan blanched at the prospect of having to face Constance in over protective mother hen mode and he shook his head. "Fine, I'll do as you say. But don't think I am going to forget this." He huffed, petulant. "This is blackmail!"

"I am sure it is." Athos replied drily.

XXX

_Two hours later._

"I swear I don't know what you are talking about." The man was big, but he had nothing on Porthos who was holding him up against the wall. "I am telling you I walked into a door last night."

Porthos slammed him against the wall. "Think very carefully, my friend," he snarled. "I wouldn't want you having any memory lapses."

"Look if you let me go, I'll tell you what I know." The man pleaded, and Porthos smiled.

XXX

Aramis had dressed down for the visit, that is, he wasn't wearing his fancy cloak or the hat with the nice feathers. It didn't do well to look like a noble in these streets. He was however a man on a mission.

"Ahh mon cheri!" the ecstatic cry of the seedy looking woman had him cringing. "It has been so long since I have felt the security of your strong arms." She slung her arms around his neck, pushing her chest into his, almost causing her breasts to spill out of her scanty dress.

"Marie, my dear," he crooned, turning on The Stare at her. "I would love to stay, but I have some business."

"I am sure you do, and now that you are here I do too… Lots of delicious _business_," she moaned in his ear and he had to remind himself not to roll his eyes.

"I want to know, have you heard of anyone…"

XXX

Athos faced the assembled guards and looked each of them in the eye. "You are not to leave any stone unturned while looking for it. I want every beggar searched, every street vendor questioned and any suspicious activity followed upon. Under no circumstances are you to return without it, is that clear?"

"Yes sire!" A smart salute and his answering nod later, the entire unit disbanded and went off in four different directions leaving Athos free to go to the pub.

It was to his immense surprise that he met Aramis and Porthos there too along with a big man with a nice purpling bruise over his left eye, a shorter man who wouldn't stop singing drunkenly in his nasally voice about how he had made a decent business deal recently, and a third man who was sitting all alone, stinking up the entire bar.

Aramis and Porthos beckoned Athos over and he went to where they were sitting, cracking his knuckles in preparation of a good fight.

XXX

D'Artagnan was woken up by an insistent knocking on his door. "Go away Constance, I swear I'm not coming down with anything!" he shouted, raising his head from the pillow.

The knocking grew louder and even more annoying. He got up, swearing, and wrenched the door open. "What…?"

His sleepy mind took a minute to realize that it wasn't Constance but rather three very amused musketeers standing on his doorstep. He simply turned around leaving the door open and went straight back to bed. Until Athos had sent him home this morning, he hadn't realized how tired he was. Between his duties as a Guard of the regiment, his excursions with the musketeers, his training and Constance, he barely had any time to rest.

He raised his head from the pillow at a pointed cough and glared at the three men blearily, taking in Porthos's bloody knuckles, Aramis's hastily tucked in shirt and Athos's hair which was in mild disarray. "You told me to rest. I am resting. What more do you want?" he couldn't stop the whine from entering his voice.

"Good to know you know how to follow orders," Athos commented, the sarcasm in his voice making d'Artagnan roll his eyes.

"Aww, don't be like that!" Aramis exclaimed. "We come bearing gifts." He took out a bottle of wine from his coat and shook it in the air, causing d'Artagnan to roll his eyes again.

"Don't listen to them, we came to see how you were doing." Porthos said, and d'Artagnan groaned, rolling his eyes.

"He rolls his eyes as lot, doesn't he?" Aramis muttered.

"Aye, right impolite fellow, that one." Porthos agreed.

Athos cleared his throat loudly, "We also brought you this," he said, taking out the familiar gold timepiece from his pocket. D'Artagnan sat up his eyes trailing from the offered instrument to Athos's face, in confusion.

"What is… -" he trailed off when Athos handed the watch to him. He took the cherished gift, rubbing his hand over the engraved surface and opened it. Inside was the heartwarming inscription that he so loved: 'For you, my son.' Tears came to his eyes and he blinked furiously to stop them from spilling down his cheeks. He clutched the timepiece in his fist and looked up to meet the gaze of the three men staring at him. "I…-" he swallowed, at loss for words. "I don't know what to say," he admitted softly.

"Don't say anything." Aramis replied, smiling. "Just make sure you wear that on a longer chain so it does not catch the attention of any future mugger."

Porthos grinned, "You don't have to worry about that though. There wouldn't be a repeat of last night, I've made sure of that."

"How did you…?"

"Ahh, that is an interesting tale of a few broken bones, a few drinks wasted, an experience with a lady I would rather forget and some dim witted guards," Aramis said, "But all that is not important. What is important is that you have it back."

D'Artagnan smiled in gratitude, "Thank you. I… You don't know what this means to me. I thought I would never see this again."

"We do actually. It belongs to your father, it is the last thing you have of his," Athos said quietly. He took in the surprised look on the younger man's face and grinned. "You get extremely loose tongued and sappy when you are drunk."

D'Artagnan blushed and ducked his head. Athos knelt in front of him and taking the watch from his hand put it around his neck. "Some things are worth holding on to," he said softly, ruffling his hair, before standing back up.

Looking at the three friends who surrounded him, d'Artagnan couldn't help but agree.

* * *

><p><em>I know time bombs aren't period accurate but, artistic license. Also there were delayed action bombs, but those weren't the same thing.<br>Anyway, what do you think?  
><em>


	10. The Highwayman

**A/N**: This is a fusion with Alfred Noyes's The Highwayman. It's Athos/d'Artagnan.  
><strong>Warning<strong>: In the poem, everyone dies. It's sad. I don't know why I wrote it.

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><p><strong>The Highway Man.<strong>

The wind was howling in the trees and dark shadowy clouds loomed in the distance hiding the ghostly moon, allowing only a sliver of moonlight through, lighting up the winding road on the hill. It was this road that the highwayman rode upon, with all the haste in the world.

He had a French cocked hat on his forehead, and was dressed in fine claret velvets with a bunch of lace at his chin. His rapier and pistol twinkled like the stars in the sky in his belt as he rode to the small inn which stood at the foot of the hill.

It was dark when he reached the inn, and all the doors and windows were barred. He knocked on the door and cracked his whips at the shuttered windows, but there was no answer. Then he whistled, a sweet sharp sound and a smiling face appeared at one of the windows.

D'Artagnan opened the window quickly, and stretched out a hand. Athos climbed up on his horse, and kissed his lover's palm. The young man's dark eyes burned with the intensity of a thousand suns as they asked him to stay the night but he shook his head.

"Just a kiss, my love and I'll be off," he said. "There is a pot of gold that is making its way to the king's treasury right now and it has my name on it."

D'Artagnan's lips curled into a small sad frown and Athos wished he could lay the world at his feet. "Then promise me you will come back later?" the young man asked.

"I'll be back before the first morning light," he promised, twining their fingers together and kissing their locked hands reverently. "But if the king's men keep on my trail, then I'll come back by the moonlight."

D'Artagnan nodded and tried not to sigh. He knew that Athos had a duty to fulfill, to help those in need with the money he stole from the cruel king. Yet his heart clenched painfully. He would rather that Athos stayed with him, safe, than face the dangers he did every day.

"Smile for me, my love," Athos asked tenderly. D'Artagnan's face lit up beautifully when he smiled and that was the last thing Athos wanted to see before he rode away again.

"I can't. I have an ill feeling that I am going to lose you," d'Artagnan whispered, giving voice to his fear.

"Fret not," Athos assured him. "I promise I'll come back to you. You can watch for me at this window and I will ride to you with the moonlight."

D'Artagnan smiled, his heart finding solace in the promise and with one last lingering kiss, Athos got back in his saddle and rode away.

XXX

He did not come by the dawning and d'Artagnan knew the King's musketeers must be hard on Athos's trail. He prayed for his lover's safety and waited for noon. Yet Athos did not arrive.

Evening passed and still there was no sign of him.

Then with the sunset, a smartly dressed troop of the King's Musketeers could be seen marching down the hill. The group consisted of some twenty people who burst into the inn and without a single word to his father, the inn keeper, they made their way to d'Artagnan's room.

They grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and shoved him against the wall, tying him up to cease his struggling.

"Stop squirming, you filthy whore," a beefy soldier struck him across the face and he saw stars.

"He has a pretty mouth doesn't he?" another said, tying a musket in such a way that it's barrel was pointed right at d'Artagnan's chest, and kissing him roughly on the mouth.

"We are going to get that thieving scum that you have for a lover, you wait and see," their captain promised, sending a man to set post with musket ready at each window.

The young man could do nothing but look on helplessly. He could see the glistening road on the hill that Athos was going to ride on through one of the windows and tears came to his eyes as he remembered the doomed man's promise: "I will come to you by the moonlight."

All the musketeers had their attention towards the road, and d'Artagnan tried to test the knots tying his hands together. He writhed his hands, rubbing at them as hard as dared, while trying not to catch the attention of any of the men. The hours crawled by like years and still he continued to rub at the rope. His hands grew slick with sweat and the blood from his wrists, and yet he continued.

It was after several hours of agonizing silence that he finally managed to loosen the knot enough that he could reach the trigger of the musket pointing at his chest. He dared not try to do anything else for in the silence, over the pounding of his own blood in his ears, he heard the clatter of hooves in the distance.

_T-tlot, T-tlot_, had they heard it?

_T-tlot, T-tlot, _the horses hooves rang clear.

Several heart beats passed and he could make out the tiny figure of the highwayman galloping over the brow of the hill. The Red Coats stood straight and took aim. D'Artagnan watched his lover come nearer, and he could make out Athos's smiling face, shining like a blessed light. His eyes grew wide for a moment and he drew one last deep breath. With the image of Athos's face etched in his inner eye, he pulled the trigger.

_Bang! _

The shot echoed over the hill and the galloping horse reared at the sudden noise. Athos's breathe hitched. _It was a trap!_ Thanking the heavens that the shot had not gotten him, he spurred his steed towards the west.

He made his way back over the hill, unaware that his lover lay head bowed over the musket, drenched in his own red blood. He made his way to the tavern at the nearby village and decided to wait until morning to meet his love.

It was several hours later, when the first few rays of sunlight had started filtering into the musky tavern that he heard a few men talking.

"Did you hear about the innkeeper's son?"

"The one with the cheeky tongue and the pretty mouth? What about him?"

"The musketeers had laid a trap for his lover and the poor sod shot himself to warn him away."

All the blood drained from his face as Athos stood up abruptly and rushed out. He jumped on his horse, blinded with rage and grief, shrieking a curse to the sky. He rode furiously towards the inn, his rapier brandished high, intent on finding out for himself if his lover was indeed dead.

If he was, he knew he was going to take as many musketeers with him as he could, before following d'Artagnan into the silent land. He had made him a promise, and Athos was nothing, if not a man of his word.

He encountered the troop at the foot of the hill and one look at the grief stricken face of the weeping father was enough to tell that it was true.

These dogs had killed his love.

He wailed as he struck down one of them before getting down from his horse and attacking. He slashed and swung his sword at every man in his way, and it wasn't until a shot was fired that his frantic movements ceased. He stood still for a second, his sword falling from his grasp before his knees gave out.

A wine red stain appeared on his velvet coat.

He fell to the ground and did not move again.

_Still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,  
>When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,<br>When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
>A highwayman comes riding—<br>Riding—riding—  
>A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. <em>

* * *

><p><em>Fans of the poem, I know I kind of destroyed it, but then the beauty of poetry can't exactly be captured through prose, but I did try.<br>_

_For people who haven't read the poem, I would advise you to listen to _Loreena McKennitt's_ song The Highwayman. It is guaranteed to bring tears to your eyes. _

__ As ever, I would love to hear what you think. __


	11. Allegiance

A/N: A little bit of what I feel d'Artagnan sees Athos as. Spoilers for and tag to the fourth episode.

* * *

><p>D'Artagnan listened intently to Aramis describe how the man who once was an honorable and brave musketeer had saved his life but deemed his own nor worth living.<p>

He understood.

Loyalty to a friend, respect for a comrade and a debt of life that can never be repaid. He understood all that.

So he agreed to keep quiet about sheltering Marsac. Because if there was one thing they taught right in Gascony, it was honor.

Aramis asked if he was sure. "You will lie to Captain Treville for Marsac?"

"No, I would do it because you asked me to, and I trust in your judgment."

Aramis had looked at him, respect and recognition in his eyes, he was looking at a friend who was a true musketeer at heart and understood the code.

"d'Artagnan, you are everythihng a man can ask for in a friend," he had said, meaning every word.

The Gascon had bowed his head slightly at the praise but then looked at him with steel in his eyes. "Aramis, I would lie to Treville for you. I would lie to the Cardinal and the king too if you ask me to," he had pause and Aramis had understood.

"But?" he had prompted.

"But I wouldn't lie to Athos."

The statement had made Aramis slightly angry though he had only nodded his head in acceptance then. The boy had not known Athos more than a few weeks, Athos had been Aramis' friend for years now. Who was he to think that Athos' friendship meant more to him than it did to Aramis?

"You're hiding something."

Of course Athos would pick up on it. He knew Aramis too well. Aramis looked at him innocuously "No idea what you mean."

"You too." Athos glanced at d'Artagnan and Aramis sighed putting his hat on.

"If you don't tell them, I will."

Aramis had not understood then but he had relented and told his friends about finding Marsac. Now as he sat in his room, alone, drenched from the rain, having buried one of his best friends, he thought about it.

He thought about how easy it was to believe in someone, and yet how much courage that kind of loyalty and faith took. He thought of how Treville will always be shadowed by a decision he made and twenty deaths he helped caused in his eyes. He thought about Athos, noble, loyal, brave, unflinching, just and reliable Athos. He marveled at how quickly the youngster from Gascony had earned their trust and wormed his way into each of their lives.

He thought about a boy left all alone cradling his father's dead form to his chest, with one name branded into his memory: Athos.

He thought about an enraged ride to Paris and the cold fury with which he had marched into the garrison that day to face the man who killed his father.

He thought about the resolute determination in the young lad's eyes to rather die than give up in a fight.

He thought about that misplaced hatred and thirst for revenge changing into confusion and after some days studying the man whom he had so misjudged, turning into respect and more recently, complete and unadulterated admiration.

He thought about all that, and he began to understand.

d'Artagnan would betray king and country for his friends.

He wouldn't betray Athos.

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><p>As always, reviews are welcome.<p> 


	12. The Art of Seduction

It was Aramis' birthday and they were all out drinking. That's all they did it seemed, they drank.

d'Artagnan won a duel, they went out to drink. Porthos won some money in a card game, they go for drinks. Aramis tasted the fruit of his labor after wooing a girl he had had his eyes upon, and they went out for drinks.

Athos, well Athos was always the one they _joined_ for drinks. It seemed like that guy was always just _there_ wherever there were drinks to be had.

It was an ability Aramis had decided he would have to learn.

Today's excuse was Aramis' birthday. It was a fine excuse, Aramis thought, one that should be getting him more than just a few more drinks. The attentions of a particular curly haired musketeer, for example.

He however was at a loss at how to get the man to notice his interest. Aramis knew that Porthos would welcome it, but wouldn't ever take the first step, leaving that to the confident charmer that was Aramis.

And Aramis was done waiting. He wanted Porthos, and he wanted him _now_.

That was why after having a few drinks and sharing a few laughs with his friends Aramis discreetly lay a hand on Porthos's elbow and said, "All days are nights to see till I see thee,  
>And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me."<p>

Athos grinned into his glass, and d'Artagnan coughed to hide his splutter of laughter. They had noticed his blatant staring at Porthos throughout the night. Aramis only had eyes for Porthos though.

Porthos looked at his friend, his eyebrows coming together in an adorable confused look. "Friend, is something affecting your eyes? Did that lady from before slap you harder than we thought?"

Aramis groaned. He tried again, looking at Porthos through lidded eyes, seductively. "No, I wanted to tell you… where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation."

Porthos looked at Athos. "I don't think Aramis is feeling right." He out a hand on Aramis' brow and Aramis leaned into the touch. "Yea, he's getting hot. He might be coming down with a fever."

Athos just nodded sagely at the bigger man. "Aye." D'Artagnan smirked and Aramis shot them both a glare.

_How was this not working? _By now any girl would be a puddle at his feet, gibbering nonsense about wanting him. Porthos however seemed oblivious to his charm.

He thought for a moment, and mentally went through his armory of great lines, he settled on his favourite. He pulled on his best Stare and took Porthos's hand in his own.

"If I profane with my unworthiest hand  
>This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:<br>My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand  
>To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."<p>

Porthos looked at his glass and frowned, unhappy. "Look man, you know I don't like talking religion. I get that you are on good terms with God, but He and I don't look eye to eye on many things." Porthos extracted his hand from Aramis's grasp. "I'll get us more drinks."

He left the table and walked away to the bar and Aramis let his head fall on the table with a frustrated sigh. "What is wrong with him?" he moaned.

"Alas that love, so gentle in his view, should be so rough and tyrannous in proof." d'Artagnan said, and Aramis looked up to find him staring at him, nodding sagely, before his face split into a shit- eating grin.

"Sod off, you two," he grumbled staring into his cup dejectedly.

"Love is blind, and lovers do not see the petty follies themselves commit," Athos offered. Aramis looked at him, betrayed

"You too? Why aren't you sitting in some corner brooding?"

"This is far too much fun, that's why." Athos and d'Artagnan shot each other a grin before sobering when they saw Porthos making his way back, four glasses balanced in his hands.

"Maybe try for something more direct?" d'Artagnan suggested quietly as Porthos sat down, taking pity on the hopeless idiot.

Aramis thought for a moment. Maybe, maybe d'Artagnan was right. The other three raised their glasses and drank but Aramis fixed Porthos with an intent gaze, the man's full lips catching his attention "You have witchcraft in your lips."

Porthos spat out the wine he had drunk, spluttering and spraying spit and wine all over d'Artagnan who sat across him. "What!" he wiped his lips furiously "Am I hexed?"

Aramis groaned and covered his face with his hands while d'Artagnan tried to calm Porthos down. Athos started giggling uncontrollably until Aramis kicked him under the table to shut him up.

D'Artagnan had managed to get Porthos to sit down again and not go charging at the unsuspecting innkeeper with his sword for hexing him by telling him that Aramis was just jesting with him. Porthos looked at the forlorn musketeer angrily. "What is wrong with you, fool? Do not jest about such matters!"

Aramis looked at him, helpless. "Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing, love, not for such contempt…?"

Porthos just shook his head disgustedly and drained his cup.

Athos leaned forward. "What our friend has been trying to say throughout the evening is that he rather fancies you and would like you to kiss him."

"Also he would like to go down on his knees and take your cock in his mouth and suck you dry." D'Artagnan added and Aramis choked on his drink.

"Then he would like you to take him to the nearest empty place and fuck him raw." Athos finished, reclining in his seat, staring smugly at Porthos.

Porthos looked in surprise at his friends before turning to Aramis, who looked through his mortification, hopeful that maybe, just maybe the message had gotten through. "Well then, why didn't you just say so?"

Aramis spluttered, but was prevented from replying by two chafed, warm lips capturing his in a hot, demanding kiss.

After that, no words were really necessary.


	13. Apologies

A/N: I can't believe I'm neglecting my drabble series. But my other story seems to want all my time and this baby is left to fend for itself. Fans of this, I'm sorry.  
>Spoilers: tag to the Homecoming. I know it's late but was that episode awesome or was it awesome? :P<p>

* * *

><p>Apologies:<p>

D'Artagnan raised his hand to knock but lowered it again, without doing so. He was standing outside Porthos' rooms in the barracks and wavering between wanting to go in or waiting till both of them were a little more sober.

After the whole fiasco at the Court of Miracles and getting Porthos' name cleared the musketeers and d'Artagnan had taken over the nearest tavern, drinking any kind of cheap alcohol they could get their hands on with a vengeance, wanting only to forget what had happened.

Porthos did not want to think about how it had felt to feel his childhood friend's body go limp in his arms, Aramis wanted to forget the look on Porthos' face when he had glanced back at him cradling the dying man's head in his arms. Athos drank to just _forget_.

D'Artagnan however did not join his friends. He sat there carefully sipping from his cup, not believing that he deserved to forget what he had done.

He had doubted the integrity and honor of a fellow musketeer. Even if it had only been for a second, even if it had only been a single word, it was enough. The seed had taken root somehow, and d'Artagnan _hated_ himself for it.

There were many stories of how one became a musketeers which got wilder and wilder as the night darkened and the wine flowed. But if there was one person who had never ventured his own tail, it had been Porthos. But from what he had learnt was that Porthos was a self-made man in every sense of the word. Without any recommendation or noble house to sponsor his training, he had worked day and night to join the most elite unit of soldiers in the country.

D'Artagnan imagined his story would rather read like a myth, like the stories of heroes of old did: the ordeals of Odysseus that the Iliad praised or the labors of the great Hercules. Having lived in relative luxury under his father's roof for most of his life, d'Artagnan did not think he could hold a candle to the older man.

Which was why his honor dictated that he come clean about his misgivings and apologize to Porthos, hoping that the bigger man had it in his heart to forgive him, though he knew he did not deserve any such mercy. There was no room in the musketeers for doubt or question. It was complete obedience and loyalty or nothing at all.

The other two had noticed his hand staying from his glass through the night but they hadn't commented on it knowing what was troubling his mind. It was only when d'Artagnan had half carried a completely drunk Athos back to his rooms, that the older man had grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him near.

"He won't hold it against you."

His breath had stank with drink and his tight grip had scratched at his chest, but d'Artagnan had nodded gratefully, gladdened to hear that not only did Athos thought that Porthos would forgive him, but Athos had done so as well.

Now he stood and straightening his shoulders, knocked at the door lightly before he cold change his mind. There was a groan and a mumbled, 'it's open' from inside, and d'Artagnan pushed at the door and stepped into the room.

It wasn't so much of a room as it was four walls with a roof. The only piece of furniture being a bed and a stool. Porthos lay spread out on the bed, his armor off, the laces of his shirt undone halfway down his chest. He sat up somewhat when he saw it was d'Artagnan.

"Hey. The other two got back okay?" his voice slurred as he asked. D'Artagnan nodded, sitting on the stool when Porthos gestured. The older man lay back down with a grunt.

"I know why you are here."

D'Artagnan looked at him in surprise. "Aramis talked to you."

It wasn't a question as much it was a statement but Porthos shook his head. "So it was Aramis. I hope he didn't punch you."

"No, but he should have."

Porthos chucked but then the smile died on his face a second later. There was silence for a while before d'Artagnan spoke, "I was wrong to doubt you Porthos. I am very sorry for even thinking that you could have killed the man when I should have had the absolute and utter faith in you that a friend deserves."

"Kid, it's okay." Porthos waved a hand, not looking at d'Artagnan. "Truth be told, I wondered about it myself…" he trailed off.

"You shouldn't have. It would make you glad to know that Athos, Aramis and even the captain did not believe it for a single second."

Porthos nodded at the ceiling but then sat up, finally meeting d'Artagnan's eyes. "I've been with the Musketeers for going on eight years now and I knew the captain and Aramis from long before that too when I was a mere soldier. They know me intricately and it does not surprise me that they had faith in me when I did not have it in myself." He paused and glared at d'Artagnan drunkenly. "But that does not mean I think any less of you for thinking what anyone could have thought. It's okay, it's a thing of the past. You don't know me as well as they do, so I won't hold it against you that you wavered."

"But I shouldn't have…" d'Artagnan could not hold the older man's gaze.

"No, you shouldn't have. But one thing I've learned is that you can't dwell on the past for too long, lest its grip on you becomes too difficult to break. Let it go d'Artagnan, learn from the incident and then let it go."

D'Artagnan was surprised at the depth of Porthos' words. He had always known the man was smart, but he hadn't known him to be so eloquent. His surprise must have shown on his face because Porthos chuckled. "Did I say something too grand?"

"Not more than usual, I guess." D'Artagnan smiled. "I promise what happened will not be repeated and I will make it up to you."

Porthos groaned laying back, but then grinned. "Oh yes, you do that. Starting from buying me all the drinks I want at the tavern tomorrow. But right now I need to sleep and so do you in whatever is left of the night."

D'Artagnan smiled and stood up, and with a mumbled good night from the older man walked out of the room.

He knew he was lucky to be able to call such great men his friends. he just hoped, one day he would be deserving enough for them to call him one in return.

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><p><em>Now I get back to writing Till Kingdom Comes. Shamelessly. All I do is write fan fiction, I tell you.<em>


	14. PID: Porthos in Distress

A/N: This one shot is dedicated to the lovely See Me As I Am 101. I was going to put something like this in my other story 'Till Kingdom Comes,' but then I realized that all my ex-special forces lawyers were too bad ass to get hurt. I was sad to have to rewrite that part because See Me As I Am had asked for a scene like this one specifically. So here's the promised hurt Porthos, with pissed off caring Aramis. Have fun. :)  
>Warnings: Language. Aramis cusses.<p>

* * *

><p>PID: Porthos in Distress.<p>

It was an unusually easy mission. No threats against the king, no false treasonous charges to be disproved, and no wanted criminals escorted.

All they had to do was ride out to a distant village, talk to the inn keeper about the people who kept getting sick after staying there and then ride back. Aramis had even complained they did not need a four man unit on the mission, Porthos and himself were enough. Had Athos and d'Artagnan not been occupied with another one, he wouldn't have had a problem with those two accompanying them. The duo had taken to politely giving Porthos and Aramis their space. But with two other musketeers, his plans of spending some nice happy times at the inn with Porthos would have to be put on hold.

They wouldn't eat the food. They'll just make use of a room.

It would have been an unusually easy mission. That is, if nearing the village, a couple dozen men hadn't attacked them for no apparent reason except yelling 'musketeers!'. The fight had been short but brutal. The musketeers each trained highly in combat, had fought fiercely but the bandits had made up in numbers what they lacked in training. There was only so much you can do when while swinging your sword at one man in front of you and ducking a mace from another beside you, someone jabbed you in the back.

When the fighting was done, Porthos was holding his side, standing. But another musketeer, Charles de Vilar was prone on the ground, breathing heavily, clutching at the cut that bled freely from his stomach.

Aramis, being the only one trained to handle injuries turned first towards Porthos as he was wont to do. But Porthos waved him off, telling him that he was fine and instructing him to tend to Charles, and seeing the man walk to the nearest horse which hadn't run off spooked, Aramis had relented, hurrying over to the wounded man.

The wound was deep, the cut having sliced through a lot of muscle. Aramis could sew back skin and close it, but if it had nicked something important, then there was nothing that could be done. Still Aramis had to try to do everything he could.

He wrapped several strips of cloth over the cut, securing it with tight knots. It would have to do until they could find a place clean enough for him to perform his needlework.

"Porthos, get one of the horses here!" he called out, picking up his injured comrade bodily. He put him on the horse, before getting on behind him. "We have to get him to the village fast. He needs attention, and he needs it soon."

Porthos and the Dominique, the other musketeer, nodded and got on their horses as well. They rode as fast as they dared, reaching the village half an hour later. Aramis wasted no time in getting the injured man to a room in the inn. Berating the innkeeper and investigating the case could come later, first the man's life needed to be saved.

Aramis worked desperately, barking orders at Porthos and Dominique while he stemmed the flow of blood and stitched up the cut.

It was messy, bloody work which required intense care and concentration and by the time Aramis finished and sat back, he was utterly exhausted.

"Is he going to be okay?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shrugged his shoulders. "I've done all I can, now we have to wait and see if he will make it."

"Alright… Yeah we'll wait here. Why don't you –" Porthos trailed off, his knees buckling. Aramis shot up from where he was sitting on the ground.

"You're hurt!" He was at the man's side in an instant, face going pale at the amount of blood which the dark shirt had hidden. "You ass! You told me you were fine."

Porthos shrugged wordlessly and winced when Aramis raised his shirt slowly.

Aramis swore.

Aramis swore like he wasn't usually prone to, loudly and furiously, cursing everyone from god to Porthos' nonexistent common sense.

"For fuck's sake I have half a mind to let you bleed out from that nice gash that you have. This is what you call being fine, you dimwitted idiot? You would expect a grown man to have more brains than a grass munching goat but no, _that_ is too much to ask apparently!"

All the while Porthos remained silent, as Aramis looked him over, gesturing for Dominique to help him on to the other bed which wasn't being occupied by an unconscious Charles. He started cleaning away the cut, which wasn't very deep, but which had bled a lot.

"This will need stitches. Don't move, I'll get my things." Aramis hurried to where he had left his bag, and settled down on the floor besides the bed, before looking at Porthos.

"This time love, I'll do this myself." He raised himself a little and punched the man.

Hard.

Porthos' eyes rolled back and he passed out. "That'll teach you to lie to me, you bastard."

Dominique stared at him, looking distinctly afraid. "What?" Aramis snapped, sending the young musketeer scurrying from the room. Aramis shook his head and got to work on the stitches.

XXX

Porthos came to, a nice headache making its acquaintance with him even before he opened his eyes. He mumbled trying to lift an arm to shield his eyes against the light which was hitting his face. There was something warm on his hand. He cracked open an eye, blinking blearily to clear his vision and stared.

Aramis' head was on his hand, his face towards him, his eyes closed. He had gone to sleep sitting against the bed, after, Porthos noticed, having sewn up his wound, cleaning away the blood and changing his torn up bloodied shirt.

The man must have been tired. Still the way he was sleeping right now could hardly be comfortable and there was enough room on the large bed for two people. Porthos traced a finger on Aramis' cheek causing his eyes to open and a hand to shoot up and grab Porthos'.

"Don't move. You'll pull your stitches." The curt command made Porthos frown.

Aramis noticed. "What, I am supposed to forget your blatant disregard for your physical and my mental health and the way you heartlessly lied to me and the anxiety I felt at seeing you almost faint like some damsel in distress and… "

He was a cut off by a hand on his mouth. Porthos looked at his lover contritely. "I'm sorry…?"

The apology was as much a question as it was a statement. With Aramis, sometimes apologizing too soon got you punched in the face instead of forgiven.

Though if Porthos' somewhat hazy memory served and his headache was anything to go by, he had been dealt one punch already.

Still better safe than sorry. Not that he wasn't sorry. He was, but… Porthos shook his head a little, trying to focus.

"Charles was a lot more seriously injured than I was and I thought that you didn't need to worry about me while tending to him and then I was going to tell you, I swear..."

"But you almost fainted and I found out anyway." Aramis concluded, a frown marring his sculptured features.

Porthos nodded and sighed. "I'm sorry."

Aramis stared at him for a long time, before nodding. He got up from the floor and kicking off his boots, slowly got into bed with Porthos, taking care not to jostle the injured man. Charles was too unconscious to question their far too friendly intimacy and Dominique was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Dom?" Porthos asked, wrapping a careful arm around Aramis and pulling him closer to his uninjured side.

"He disappeared several hours ago." Aramis shrugged, laying his head on Porthos's shoulder. "I think I might have scared him slightly."

Porthos nodded sagely, pressing a kiss to his lover's hair. "I don't doubt it. You can be quite scary, love."

Aramis grinned but then turned somber, turning his head so that he was staring into Porthos' eyes. "Listen to me very carefully." The tone of his voice left no place for jests and Porthos found himself nodding. "I will never stop worrying about you. When you are gone on some mission without me I worry, when you foolishly incite a man into challenging you to a duel, I worry; when you casually stride into battle armed with nothing but your quick fists, I worry; when you aren't in my sights for even an instance, I worry. So please never ever lie to me again if you are hurt. I don't care if everyone else dies, you are not allowed to be injured on my watch. Is that clear?"

Porthos was about to make some smartass comment about Aramis being a needy maiden, when a single eyebrow raised in warning made him change his mind. "Crystal clear, love," he mumbled instead.

Aramis nodded and settled back on his shoulder with a small grim smile, "That's what I thought."

Porthos dozed off to sleep soon after, assured by Aramis' close presence. Aramis however lay awake, unable to sleep.

Everytime he closed his eyes, he saw Porthos falling to his knees, he saw his shirt covered with blood, he saw the ugly gash bleeding sluggishly, he saw the deathly pale look on Porthos' face.

Aramis shuddered, laying a hand on his lover's chest, feeling the heart beating beneath his palm. He calmed his breath until he could feel his heart beat match Porthos'.

Smiling he closed his eyes.

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><p><em>God, I've never typed out something this fast before.:P<br>I think I'm addicted to _**writing**_. God. _


	15. More Than You Know

**A/N**: So I caught up with the studies which I was ignoring and though I'm not getting into my other story, Till Kingdom Comes again, (that one just takes over my life, I swear), I did give in and wrote this. The new episode was awesome, (but then which one isn't?) and hopefully once this is written, it would stop going around in my head.

**Spoilers**: Not much, except for the fact that d'Art becomes an official musketeer. (Now this warning is obsolete, as it itself has a spoiler... Whatever, what are you doing reading FF if you haven't watched the epi yet anyway?)

**Tag to**: Episode 8.

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><p>More Than You Know.<p>

Athos watches the young Gascon fight. D'Artagnan has put his advice to good use. His sword moves with a sharp deadly precision, and he ducks and avoids Aramis' attack so effortlessly it seems like he is dancing. Aramis gives him an appreciative nod, but it is not him the young man seeks approval from. His eyes search out Athos', their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second.

A minute shake of the head and d'Artagnan is grinning like a delighted child on Christmas before focusing on Aramis again.

Athos has no idea what the boy sees in him. He is the only man who has seen Athos at his weakest, and yet Athos sees the same loyalty and respect in his eyes that he does in Aramis' and Porthos'.

In the beginning he thought it was naïve idolatry. He had waited for the Gascon to tire of it, to realize how flawed and imperfect his choice of mentor is.

But he doesn't think so anymore.

D'Artagnan is smiling, Aramis has started to pant a little, trying to keep up.

Athos thinks the man rather regrets suggesting the two have a rematch to settle the question of who is the best musketeer once and for all. Aramis doesn't seem to be beaten yet though, and attacks with renewed vigor. D'Artagnan blocks with ease and follows it with a blow of his own. Aramis almost loses his footing and d'Artagnan backs off, allowing him to regain his balance. The recently appointed musketeer has the cheek to give the small crowd of onlookers who have gathered a small bow.

Athos smiles.

The boy is young, passionate, proud, hot headed, trouble prone and strong willed.

None of the qualities bode well for the longevity of his lifespan. He finds trouble at every street corner, catches all the wrong kinds of attention and actively courts death when he goes for a week without a fight or two.

He is nothing like Athos, who is renowned for his ability to keep his head in even the direst of situations.

And yet he isn't all that different.

The honesty in his eyes, the insatiable love for justice which shines through, the unwavering loyalty to those he has deemed worthy, the incorruptible morals which a much remembered father has instilled in him; once, Athos thinks, once he himself was the same way.

Once he too had beliefs he stood by, a code he lived for. Life has taught him the foolishness of his idealism, but he does not begrudge the boy his ignorant innocence.

Both musketeers are tiring now, and Treville calls out for them to stop the fighting. Athos thinks the men don't really mind as d'Artagnan grins and nods at Aramis' comment that they will have to do this yet again at a later date. It's a game, and both of them don't want it to end just yet. They make their way inside, keeping away their equipment and laughing together.

Athos watches them go with not a small amount of pride. D'Artagnan has improved considerably from when he fought Athos for the very first time in the same courtyard. Then he had a lot of raw talent, but not much in the way of skill. A few sessions with Athos and some well-aimed words of advice seem to have had the desired effect. The young musketeer is still as quick to rise to a challenge as ever, but Athos takes some consolation from the fact that at least now he wouldn't lose his head in a fight his temper gets him into.

He could have gone on ignoring the young man's obvious need for some guidance and stuck to his aloof attitude, letting Aramis and Porthos handle him. But something had made him act, to step in. He hadn't even consciously made the decision to follow Treville to his office following his announcement of appointing himself as the champion.

But he knows he believes every word that came out of his mouth then about d'Artagnan.

Athos wasn't one to put his faith in people lightly, but he knows d'Artagnan is worth it. If there is anyone who would rather die than betray his friends, it is the young Gascon. D'Artagnan wouldn't let him down.

D'Artagnan, who has it in him to become the greatest of them all. Athos finds himself swearing silently to a god he no longer believes in that he would see the young man reach his complete potential if it was the last thing he did.

He turns to find the captain watching him. He raises his brows in question but Treville just shakes his head and looks away, a small smile on his face.

Athos shrugs, and follows the other two inside.

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><p><em>As usual, thoughts are welcome. I also want to thank those of you who have wished me luck for my exams. I haven't had the time to reply to your reviews in person so this will have to do.<em>  
><em>Thank you.<em>

_Also, did anyone else notice the Aramis/Porthos match going on in the background when Athos was training with d'Artagnan? Why didn't we get more of that? :(_


	16. Joining the Ranks

**A/N:** I can't be the only one who thinks d'Art crying is ADORABLE. I just wanted to give the poor guy a hug... :'(  
><strong>Tag to<strong>: Episode 8.

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><p>Bittersweet.<p>

The room wasn't big or very well furnished, with just a bed and a wardrobe along with a stool. . But it was his own and for that he was glad.

There would be no pesky cloth merchants bothering him about the rent, no stealing glances at… D'Artagnan stopped himself before his mind took him there.

He threw the bag holding the few of his possessions on the floor and slumped on the bed, utterly and completely exhausted from the day's events. It hadn't started well, what with his heart being so mercilessly ripped to shreds, and it had only gotten worse till the king had ordered him to kneel and made him a musketeer.

D'Artagnan knew he should be happy. He certainly had been in the field, overwhelmed actually, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he had hugged each of his comrades in turn.

But now all he felt was… nothing.

He supposed that that in itself was a blessing of sorts. The others would be along as soon as they got rid of the grime and dirt of the day and they would want to drink and feast in his honor. He would have to laugh and talk and be merry, even though all he wanted to do was lay there and not move for the entire night.

He hadn't told them about Constance. Not then, and certainly not now.

It seemed the musketeer life did not allow for successful romances. Athos' love life was in shambles, Porthos' heart belonged to the regiment, Aramis was too far gone to care and now it seemed that d'Artagnan had his own tale of woe to drown in whatever glass of cheap brandy the others used to quell their hurts.

To date d'Artagnan had never let anyone who had wronged him go without seeking justice for their actions. But this was something he had never had to deal with. He couldn't very well march up to the _respectable_ Madame Bonacieux and challenge her to a duel over his broken heart.

No, all he could do was join the ranks of soldiers, all of whom drank late into the night, each for their own reason, an unspoken agreement between them of never prying into another man's affairs.

D'Artagnan smirked bitterly. He was a musketeer after all. There were standards to live up to.


	17. When Worlds Collide

**A/N:** This one goes out to See Me As I Am 101. Your reviews are gold.  
><strong>Spoilers and Tag to<strong>: Episode 8.

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><p>When Worlds Collide<p>

Shoulders hunched and face half hidden in the shadows, Porthos sat with his back to the door, in the farthest, most dimly lit corner of the dinghy bar.

Usually he was loathe to be found there, drinking the piss that the sleazy barmaids sold as wine, but tonight he had dragged himself away from the comfort of his friends' company and the mirth of their laughter, down to the most desolate tavern in all of Paris, wanting to remind himself what exactly he had been before he was a musketeer.

Nothing.

Before the regiment his life had been worth less than nothing, scraping and begging and stealing for a piece of bread. He had been a worthless filthy bastard child of a slave woman with nothing to his name except big impossible dreams.

Hell, he hadn't even had a name.

And now when he had everything he had hoped for, a brotherhood as fine as the musketeers to call upon, the loyalty of friends who would give their lives for him, a respectable means of earning a living; when he had finally had a place where he _belonged_, he had wanted to give it up.

A few days spent in the arms of a beautiful woman, surrounded by the rich glamor of her wealth and he had dared to forget those who had accepted him as one of their own.

Porthos did not believe in self-flagellation, life dealt him enough wounds without any more prompting from him, but tonight he did not think he deserved to be in the company of those whom he called friends.

He wasn't a fool, he knew it wasn't wrong to desire a life with a woman, a married life with someone he could love, have children with, travel together maybe. As a matter of fact, a small part of him felt glad. He had always assumed that he was broken in some manner deep inside, to not care about what happened to his life as long as it was spent in serving king and country.

It was a little heartening, he admitted, that he wasn't as damaged as he had thought.

But how he had entertained even the _idea_ of giving up the musketeers, he couldn't fathom. It did not have to be one or the other. He had had no qualms in walking away with the childhood friend he had loved, who had grown into a desirable and strong woman. Flea had not been willing to give up her life, so he had stuck to his own.

But Alice, Alice had shown him another world. A world where poverty was a distant distasteful notion, a world of comfort and luxury and quiet contentment and just for a second, he had _yearned _to say yes.

A single second was enough. In his eyes, he had betrayed his brothers.

He knew they wouldn't think that. D'Artagnan would passionately tell him he had desired nothing wrong, Athos would resolutely state that he knew no finer man than Porthos and he deserved to be happy and Aramis would…

Aramis would raise an incredulous eyebrow, throw his head back and laugh, and make him realize just how completely idiotic he was being. They would forgive him in an instance, in fact they would insist there was nothing to forgive.

But Porthos did not want forgiveness. Not yet.

Tomorrow he would face them again, apologize to Athos and Aramis and laugh at his own stupidity. But tonight, tonight he was content to let himself suffer in his shame.

The barmaid was loathe to bring the drinks to anyone's table, being the lone server but a couple of coins had convinced her to keep the wine coming. He raised a heavy hand after choking down his sixth glass and a minute later it was refilled. Porthos was about to pick up the glass when a hand on his shoulder made him pause.

He did not tense up. He knew that touch anywhere. But instead of facing the man behind him, his head dropped even lower and he groaned inwardly.

Aramis chuckled.

"Thought I would find you here." Without any further ado, the musketeer got another backless stool from one of the other tables and sat down. "We missed you at the tavern."

Porthos grunted but did not reply. Aramis went on unperturbed. "It was quite a surprising turn of events. Athos was holding back while d'Artagnan seemed intent on drowning himself in drink. The boy really has taken the loss of his family estate hard. And he must have had to move to the barracks too, be away from his lady friend. For someone who had just had his dreams realized, he seemed quite morose."

"Losing a home can do that to a man." Porthos' voice was hoarse from disuse and he spoke without meeting the other man's eyes.

Aramis waved dismissively. "He lost a farm and a house, his _home_ he found among us today."

Porthos wanted to agree, to say that the musketeers were indeed the best family d'Artagnan could have hoped for after the death of his real one, but no words came out. His throat clogged up and he could feel an unfamiliar prickle of tears in his eyes.

A hand rested on his arm, and finally Porthos looked up. Aramis was watching him earnestly, his face somber. "My friend, this will not do. Don't beat yourself over something as innocent as wanting happiness."

Porthos shook his head, and cleared his throat. "You don't understand, Aramis. I… I wanted to go with her, to have that life, to _leave_!"

Aramis felt his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought of the other man leaving them, but he did not let his hurt show. Instead he squeezed Porthos' arm and leaned forwards. "But you _didn't_. That's what matters." Aramis watched the other man's face. It was clear he his point wasn't getting through, the anguish was still plain as day. "My friend you are the strongest, most resilient man I know. We all have our moments of weakness, and yours proved to be not greed or rage, but rather love. And where there is love, there can never be any wrong. Even if you had left, I would not have held it against you for I would have taken comfort in the fact that my brother is happy."

Porthos tried to smile, but settled for a brief shake of the head. "I wouldn't have been, not without the musketeers." Aramis straightened up and smiled. "I would have been downright miserable, begging to be let back the next day itself."

Aramis grinned. "Somehow, I don't doubt that." He raised a hand to catch the barmaid's attention. The stout barmaid huffed in exaggerated annoyance but walked over with another glass and put it on the table.

Porthos watched the musketeer take a tentative sip, and gave the man credit for not spitting the vile wine out as soon as it had touched his lips. Instead, he only grimaced slightly and swallowed. "Have you ever felt it?" Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Love for something other than our duty, so intense that you would do anything to keep it?"

"Once."

Porthos nodded at the brusque answer, not expecting an elaboration. Aramis however seemed to be in an indulgent mode. "She did not agree with my circumstances and changed her mind at the last minute."

Porthos looked at him in surprise. "And yet you remain such a firm believer in the power of love?"

Aramis looked at him like as if he was a young naïve child and smiled. "Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

"The woman who loves you will love what is most important to you. She will not seek to change or alter you in any way. If you believe in anything, believe in that."

Porthos looked down and blinked, discreetly trying to get rid of the tears that threatened to fall. "It must be the wine talking, but that…" he looked at Aramis and smiled, heart finally becoming lighter and mood lifting greatly, "that was beautiful."

Aramis touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement but before he could say anything, a loud voice interrupted. "Oi pretty boy!"

Aramis glanced at Porthos and raised an eyebrow.

"I think he means you," Porthos commented helpfully. Smirking, Aramis turned around.

A short round man stood a few feet away from the table. He was dressed a little more fashionably than the tavern's other customers, most of whom where beggars and whores. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot and he was obviously drunk. "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"

Aramis smiled good-naturedly. "I'm having a drink monsieur, now if you'll excuse me." He turned back around and was about to drink from his glass when a hard clap on the shoulder caused it to go flying.

"I'm not done talking to you." The man was standing right behind Aramis now, "How about you dump this poor sod here and I'll show you a good time?"

Aramis brushed the hand off, without turning. "You are obviously drunk, which is the only reason why I would let that go. Go home."

The man's expression changed rapidly from leering and suggestive to anger in a second. "Who do you think you are, you worthless piece of shit, telling me what to do!"

Porthos was about to intervene, but Aramis stood up. He turned towards the man, who took a step back. "I am Aramis of the king's musketeers. Now I suggest you call it a day and go back home and we will speak no further of your insinuations."

The man seemed shaken for a second before he found his courage again. "A musketeer no less. My, my, why does the king get to have all the pretty ones?"

Porthos had had enough. His friend was handling the matter way too calmly for his tastes. In these areas it was best to talk with your fist or sword rather than try and reason with the brutes who lived here. Besides he knew men such as this man. They would come into the tavern, the only place they knew they could find a young body willing to do anything at all to fulfill their twisted desires for a couple of _sous_. He had seen several boys letting themselves be led out, nable to meet anyone's eyes in the morning.

He straightened in his stool, flexed his shoulders, tilted his neck on both sides to work the kink out of it, and got up. He stepped out of the shadows and stood at Aramis' side. "What part of go home did you not understand?" he growled.

The man seemed to visibly deflate. He took in the six feet and 200 pounds of pure muscle towering over him and sweat broke out on his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak and Porthos tilted his head. He shut it back quickly and looked between Aramis, whose face had lost all its easy humor at the slight to the king, and Porthos. "I…I think I'll…-" he stuttered but then changed his mind. Abruptly he turned around and scurried away as fast as his short legs could carry him.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Porthos watched the man go with a grim look. He turned to Aramis who was grinning at him and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Aramis chuckled, turning around to place a couple of coins on the table. "Nothing, I was just wondering," he took Porthos by the elbow and steered him out of the tavern, "who would look after us if you are gone, indeed?"

Porthos just smiled.

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><p>Thoughts and reviews are appreciated as always. :)<p> 


	18. Legacy

A/N: This is in response to a prompt at the bbcmusketeerkink. If you haven't been there yet, please go. There are so many delicious prompts that aren't getting all the love that they deserve.

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><p>"How many men went with you?"<p>

"Twenty six, sir."

Treville nodded. "And how many came back?"

Athos tilted his head slightly, before answering. "Twenty six, sir."

"How many were wounded?"

"None, sir."

"How many got so much as a scratch to show for a mission which took twenty six people to complete?"

Athos must have understood where this was going for despite his obvious injuries, he stood a little straighter. "None, sir."

Treville glared at the man in front of him. He had seen Athos off duty, when he wasn't wearing his uniform, on several occasions. He had seen the man stare dejectedly at a wine bottle, shoulders slumped and head bowed in defeat.

This was not that man.

This was his first lieutenant, back ram rod straight, shoulders thrown back and head lifted in pertinacious pride bordering on defiance as he stood, his gaze fixed on some point besides Treville's head.

His bearing and posture would never betray it, but he was hurt. There was a nasty looking gash on his brow, just above his left eye and his uniform was dirty enough to indicate that he had been thrown about while fighting and was probably bruised. There was a tear on the left sleeve and the fabric looked darker than the rest of the coat, the blood having seeped through.

He had waved away Aramis though, on returning from his mission, opting to get the report over with first.

Treville bit back a curse at the man's stubbornness. "So do you care to elaborate how you killed several known criminals and brought down an entire illegal fighting den that they were running on the outskirts of Paris without any of your men having taken part in any fight?"

Athos could have been a statue for how perfectly at attention he remained. "I entered as one of the challengers, defeated their main champions, without whom the remaining thugs surrendered when they saw that they were surrounded by the king's musketeers."

"You entered as a challenger?" Treville asked, his voice low, barely holding his anger in check. "There have been reports of some seventy odd people being killed in those fights and the best way you could find was to enter as a challenger?"

Athos dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement. "I was aware of the risks. I was also aware that out of the twenty six men who were under my command, I was the only one who was most likely to come out of it alive. A full frontal assault would have caused a lot of deaths and injuries, and this way no one got hurt."

Treville got up from where he was sitting behind his desk, walked around it and came to stand right in front of Athos. "You were _most likely_ to come out alive? _No one_ got hurt?"

For the first time since entering Treville's office, Athos shifted a little. "Well, not seriously sir."

"And when will it become serious enough for you? When you get shot? Maimed? When you lose one of your limbs? Or is it going to be on your _deathbed_ that you are going to realize that you should stop being such a goddamn hero and have a little self-preservation?!" Treville's voice had raised steadily until he was shouting by the end.

Athos blinked. "I was just doing what I thought was the best option sir."

"What kind of wine do you drink that it has killed all common sense in you? The best option is _not_ the one which almost gets you _killed_!"

"What do you want me to say?" Athos met Treville's gaze for the first time. "I did what I did because it was the best way which assured no one under my command got hurt in a brutal showdown. I was only doing my duty sir, and you cannot ask me to apologize for that."

"Your duty is to not get yourself killed."

"Had I not done exactly what I did, one or more of the men under my command would have lost their lives. I don't value my life above anyone else's sir."

"_But I do!" _

Treville grit his teeth and turned away, gripping the edge of his desk to keep him on his feet. _Didn't the idiot understand? _

Athos watched his captain as the older man seemed to deflate, the sharp lines of his back suddenly softening, making it painfully obvious how worn out he was. With a jolt he realized he had never seen the man look so _old_ before. He took a step forward, suddenly unsure.

"Sir?"

Treville stayed still and silent for a long time, enough to make Athos start to grow uncomfortable. A large part of him wanted to leave, allow the man his moment of weakness while keeping the image of the infallible mentor in his head alive.

But he stayed put.

He had not been dismissed and if he knew how to do anything, it was to follow orders. Besides, some part of him wanted to know why the captain was so disturbed, so _worried_.

After what seemed like an eternity, when Athos had almost given up, Treville sighed. He turned around, leaning back to rest against the desk. "I never had a family, you know? Never got married. The life of a soldier leaves no place for a domestic one." He smile was almost bitter as his gaze searched for something on the floor. "My brother in arms, when I was a musketeer and then my men when I became a captain, were everything to me. I never knew what I was missing, what it was to be a father, to have a son.

"Not until I met you." Treville lifted his gaze and looked directly at Athos. Athos forgot how to breathe. The man's gaze was so full of unbridled pride and affection that, Athos felt a sharp pang in his chest.

For the first time in years, he knew he wasn't an orphan anymore.

"Sir, I…" His voice was barely above a whisper, as he tried to form the words to express his gratitude to the older man, but the words died on his tongue. Athos found himself blinking rapidly, unable to meet Treville's gaze.

Treville smiled. "You're the finest man I know Athos, the only one whose judgment I would trust after my own. You are all I have to show for my time on God's earth, my legacy. God help me, but your life means more to me than all of the others' combined. And yet you insist on throwing it away with such reckless abandon that sometimes I wonder if I'm going to have to start training for someone else to succeed me because you would be..."

Once Athos wouldn't have understood the look that came over the captain's face as his words trailed away. But now, having watched a certain young Gascon risk his neck far too many times, with his heart in his throat as fervent words of prayer beseeched a God he had no faith in to look out for him and keep him safe left his lips, he understood.

He understood all too well.

His shoulders sagged a little as he relaxed, the emotional hit of the realization that the man he looked up to and respected as much as he hadn't even his own father, thought of him as a son in return and wanted to pass on the mantle to him; as well as his numerous injuries and bruises finally caught up to him and his knees buckled. He would have crashed to the ground had two strong arms not caught him.

Treville shook his head exasperatedly, throwing Athos' uninjured arm over his shoulders and half carrying, half dragging the man to his own chair. He lowered him down slowly, taking care to not jostle him a lot. From the barely perceptible wince which graced Athos' features, his ribs were probably cracked.

"You're quite the stubborn ass, aren't you?" The quiet admonishment had no heat in it, as Treville knelt in front of the injured man.

Athos smiled. "Learned it from the best." Treville shook his head and got up intending to go outside and call for Aramis to look the idiot over when a grip on his wrist stopped him.

He looked down to find Athos' eyes shining brightly in the dim light of the room. "Sir, I'm sorry for worrying you and I can't tell you how deeply honored I am but…" He sighed, trying to find the right words to get his point across.

"I will follow you into any battle that you send me into, even of it led to the mouth of hell itself. I would do so because you've proven that you will never give an order that you wouldn't carry out yourself. If I am to be captain, how can I expect the men to show me that respect and demand their obedience and loyalty if I shy away from the front lines?"

Treville shook his head. "I'm not asking you to shy away from battle, son. That, even I wouldn't ask of you. All I want is that you be careful. The men love you and already look up to you as their leader. You have nothing more to prove to them. There is no question about your loyalty or skill or bravery. But you have to learn that sometimes it's best for a leader to step back and trust his men to handle the situation. It would help no one if you lost your life trying to prove something the whole world is already aware of."

"It wasn't about proving myself. I…" Athos leaned back, closing his eyes against the wave of exhaustion and pain. "I just didn't want anybody to get hurt on my watch."

Treville smiled, leaning down to brush away a strand of dark hair which had fallen on the pale forehead. "And I don't want _you_ getting hurt on mine."

He had thought Athos had lost consciousness but a soft smile tugged at the younger man's lips and he leaned into the touch. "You're getting soft," he mumbled.

Treville grinned. "Blood loss is making you hallucinate. I just came in and found you here, barely conscious." He grew somber immediately. "You do something like this again though, and I will run you through myself, is that clear?"

Athos hummed agreeably. "Crystal clear, sir."

Treville nodded and straightened. He looked down at the musketeer who had finally given in to unconsciousness, his features relaxed in sleep in a way he never allowed while awake. "No man should have to bury his son," he whispered, turning away.

He knew Athos would not stay away from a fight when his brothers needed him. It wasn't in his nature to falter or back away when faced with danger. But perhaps, the next time some part of the young fool would remember his words and he would fight to live, rather than to die.

Treville sighed. A man could hope.

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><p>I love feedback. Of any kind. :)<p> 


	19. Queen of Hearts

Summary: The musketeers and their captain tell the queen their suspicions regarding the Cardinal.

Tag to: Episode 10.

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><p>All she could think of for a whole minute after hearing about it was that she should have known.<p>

For a second, she wasn't the Queen of France, the Mother of Mercy. For a second, she was only Anne, far away from her home, surrounded by people she had trusted, one of whom had tried to kill her. Irrational fear and anger coursed through her with equal fervor, and she found herself torn. She was the queen, regal, merciful yet absolute. But she was also a woman, soft and fragile, wanting nothing more than for a pair of strong arms to encase her with the promise of love and protection.

"You're sure of this?" her voice was soft, barely a whisper but the Captain heard none the less.

"I'm sorry, your majesty. But there is abundant evidence." His eyes met hers and Anne could see that he was trying to persuade and reassure all with one gaze. He was a true and loyal servant of the crown.

But wasn't that what she had thought of the Cardinal? Where had that led her? And putting her faith in her husband was futile, he was the Cardinal's man more than the Cardinal was his. There was no one she could turn to except…

Her eyes searched out Aramis', standing behind his captain and she knew in her heart that this was a man who would put her above king and country and duty and everything else, if she so desired. The musketeer had a peculiar if somewhat endearing habit of never bowing down completely. He had his head raised and he met her gaze steadily.

In his eyes she saw confirmation of the terrible truth, rage, but above all, a promise. A promise to love and protect what he held dear. He dipped his head slightly, and all of a sudden Anne felt foolish.

Here she was doubting the very men that would lay down their lives before letting harm come to her. They had proven their loyalty irrevocably in her eyes when they had gone up against all odds and laughed in the face of death itself, ready to defend her to their last breath at the convent.

She suppressed a shiver at the memory of the incident. It had been traumatic and nerve racking, no doubt. But it had also proven beyond suspicion that there were still those who lived by a code which they valued more than life itself. Before then she had known that there were people who would give their lives for her, but it had been a distant notion. It had been humbling and empowering all at once, the realization that these men would actually lay bare their throats at the tip of the enemy's swords for her if she so commanded it.

What was one man's betrayal when compared to all the loyalty of such fine men? And surely, some part of her had always suspected, the true intentions behind the Cardinal's often harsh methods.

"Why would he do such a thing?" she asked, her voice ringing strong once more as her back straightened. The musketeers behind the Captain looked at one another. There were the usual three of them present, including Aramis. Their youngest comrade was absent and for a second Anne wondered where the young man was. Athos maintained his countenance but Porthos lifted his shoulders in a 'your guess is as good as mine' shrug.

The captain took off his hat and sighed. "I cannot be certain what motives he could have had for ordering such a thing. Perhaps it was a nothing more than a play for power. He did seem awfully quick to suggest that the Count's daughter replace you on the throne."

Her eyes narrowed. Behind the captain, Athos spoke. "If I may, your majesty?" he continued when she nodded and Treville took a step to the side to allow him to come forwards, "The Cardinal is driven not by power, but by, forgive the irony, loyalty."

There were confused glances all around and Athos stopped his comrades from speaking with a raised hand. "I am not suggesting he was right in doing what he did. Merely that his reasons would no doubt be extremely patriotic, at least in his eyes. What I understand from the man's character is that he would do anything for what he thinks is the good of France, that there is no line he wouldn't cross."

The captain seemed to be considering the words of his soldier but it was Aramis who put into words what Anne was thinking. "What are you talking about? How exactly would killing the queen be good for France?"

Athos turned slightly to acknowledge him, but it was Porthos who answered. "Think about it. The queen has proven that she has standing with the king. If he could replace her with a pawn of his own, he would have complete control over the king in all matters."

Anne nodded. It made sense. Yet, like Athos said, it wasn't about power for the Cardinal. The man was in his own warped sense, immensely devoted to his duty. The only other reason to order her death when she had gone to the Bourbon-les-eaux to bathe in the waters there…

"He must have also thought that France would benefit from a queen who is more likely to produce an heir to the throne and avoid civil war if something was to happen to its king."

All four men in the room visibly stiffened. The other musketeers' expressions remained a closed mask but Aramis was an open book. Hot, wild rage clouded his features and he almost growled.

"Whatever that vile man's reasons, we must strike him down like the snake he is and get rid of him once and for all!" He looked ready to march up to the Cardinal and demand his surrender on pain of death immediately.

"There will be none of that," Anne said. All the men looked at her in disbelief but again it was Aramis who voiced it.

"You cannot possibly be thinking of letting him get away with this! This is no time for mercy! That…-"

"Aramis." The quiet admonishment from Athos had the musketeer breaking off abruptly. Anne allowed a smile to break through, feeling more in control than she had ever felt before. Now was not the time for rash judgments. Getting rid of the cardinal would only assure the appointment of his successor, and God only knew what kind of man he would be. Better the devil they knew than one they didn't.

"I understand your outrage. However the Cardinal is the king's first minister. I assure you I'm not so naïve as to think that by forgiving him he would see the error of his ways." Aramis looked down, chastised. Anne continued, "Having power over him would assure he does not try anything like this and stay in line in the future."

Anne noticed the captain nodding appreciatively. Somehow the simple gesture boosted her confidence like nothing ever had before. Here was a man, respected and loved by his men, and he approved of her suggestion. She did not have much experience in handling matters of state such as these, but with such men backing her up, it was probably time to change that. Maybe, with their support, she could afford to have a more active role in the on goings of the country she had ruled so far in name only.

"You make a valid point your majesty," Treville said. "However we would need to demonstrate to him just exactly how much power we have over him. If you would assist us, orchestrating a scene so that he gives a full confession in your presence should not be difficult."

Anne bowed her head slightly. "I would do whatever you ask of me, Captain. I trust in your judgment and the loyalty of your men."

"Then, together, we will bring an end to the Cardinal's schemes," Aramis vowed, putting back his hat. "A holy man such as him belongs on his knees, anyways."

The captain turned to glare at his musketeer but Athos and Porthos seemed to agree.

Anne smiled.

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><p>As always thoughts about this or anything at all musketeery pop into your head, feel free to talk.<p> 


	20. Drunken Adventures II

A/N: This is angst. Lots of angst. Don't read if you don't have chocolate at hand. For raouldehadleyfraser's prompt on the kinkmeme. I'm sorry, I wanted to write the fluff, but then this happened.

**SPOILERS FOR THE LAST EPISODE.** (Though I doubt you would be here if you haven't watched it yet.)

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><p>The tears are authentic. Aramis is certain of that. He needs only to think back to how distraught d'Artagnan had been when he really had found out for the first time, and he <em>knows<em>.

So is the anguish in the lad's voice as he pleads. _I swear, Athos. I didn't know. _

Athos had forgiven him immediately then, even claimed there was nothing to forgive, but d'Artagnan still held himself accountable for letting himself be seduced by Athos' wife.

That vile woman.

She _dares_ ask d'Artagnan for help? Porthos knows it's good and well and according to plan, but something in him just _flares_ at her gall. He is loath to shove the Gascon away when all he wants to do is exchange places with Athos. But he would really strangle her, crush the life out of her so her lips would stop dropping poisonous words.

Treville appears.

It's going to happen any second now. A barely perceptible twitch of d'Artagnan's hand, a discreet widening of the eyes from Athos are all the cues they get, and d'Artagnan lunges.

The shot reverberates through the alley. Aramis winces in sympathy for the young man. He certainly seems to have gotten the tail end of this mission.

Athos shouts as d'Artagnan staggers backwards. Aramis can't see the boy, but his heart leaps in his throat.

There is genuine anguish in Athos' eyes and real anger in his voice.

He rushes forwards, Porthos doing the same as d'Artagnan falls. Both musketeers' eyes go immediately to the blood…

Mother of God, there is blood _everywhere_. No, _no_, _**no.**_ It was supposed to be the arm, a flesh wound! Nothing to worry about.

Aramis spares the barest of glances towards Athos, standing there looking for all the world like a madman, his face torn between drunken rage and anguish. The hatred and disgust in his eyes is forced only until he looks at his wife, who stares with horror at the sight.

Treville had rushed forwards to catch d'Artagnan as he fell and he cradles him now. Porthos has never been much of a believer but he finds himself pleading, begging, crying.

_Please God, let him be alright. Let him be fine. Don't let him…, he's so young. No, no, stay awake, stay awake, stay awake._

He does not realize his frantic litany has taken words and he is slapping the man lightly, just wanting to see those brown eyes again, to not let them close.

Aramis is doing something, anything, _everything_, to not let more blood gush out. He wishes he can just command the life back into their friend, to heal with nothing more than a touch or a word. He wishes they had never agreed to this. He wishes that wretched woman had taken an interest in him rather than the youngest member of their group. Then he could have been the one to get shot. He wishes he had joined Athos' side in the argument when the man had threatened to really kill the boy if he ever repeated his ludicrous plan to the captain.

For now Athos might have just carried out his threat. And in doing so killed them all.

The world does not contract to a point and stand still. There are voices everywhere, people talking, someone praying, a woman's dripping with hate and scorn. But Aramis hears and sees nothing but the red blood on his hands.

He is sure he got the all of it blood off. Rubbed his hands clean everyday, for hours. The blood of twenty loyal brave souls, all dead on a frozen ground in the middle of a haunted forest. The blood of his dearest friend, as he collapsed against him, dead by his hand. The blood which follows him still.

This time, this time it's the blood of a brother and Aramis knows. He knows his hands will never be clean again. Not after _this_.

There is a tremble in Athos' limbs which has nothing to do with the three bottles of wine he has drunk and everything to do with the sight in front of his eyes. He looks at the prone body on the ground, surrounded by friends. He looks at Porthos' head, bowed over their friend, he looks at Aramis' shaking hand covered in blood, and he almost turns the musket in his hand on himself.

If the wine has interfered with his aim, if his shot had pierced anything vital, if he has killed d'Artagnan, if he has _murdered_ his _little brother_, he doesn't want to live.

He sees _her_ standing so close and his breathes stutter to a stop. Once again… This time it isn't Thomas, this time it's d'Artagnan. Athos' vision blurs. He is a gaping wound and all the world is salt.

It is only Treville's glance which stop his hand. It tells him the young man in his lap is still breathing, that he is not dead, that there is life in him still.

In a single glance the older man rights Athos' world again. He stumbles backwards, only half in pretense as the sheer utter _relief_ hits him.

There is a voice in his head which sounds comfortingly like that of the boy lying so very near, which reminds him that there's a mission to see through, an act to continue, a plan to complete. He fights every instinct, every fiber of his very being as he struggles to not rush to the side of his fallen brother. He tears his eyes away from the prone body, and fixes a burning gaze on _her_.

He doesn't have to pretend as he raises his pistol towards her with a growl of ferocious anger. Only a small part of him registers that he can't really kill her right then, and he's grateful that Treville stops his hand.

There can be nothing that goes wrong with the plan now, the plan d'Artagnan has _bled_ for.

Aramis grabs him from behind as he tries to fight off Treville in his attempts at getting to her, and Porthos assists the captain in keeping him at bay. The bigger man yells at her to run, to get away if she wanted to live and she glances at the body lying on the ground.

Aramis tells her to take him, care for him if she wants, that he's a traitor to them anyway and Athos thanks God for a second that d'Artagnan is unconscious.

The words would have hurt far more than any bullet can. They have enough to apologize for when this is all over.

Porthos tightens his grip as Athos redoubles his efforts to get to his wife, not wanting her anywhere near their friend. He doesn't know if it is to stop Athos or himself from rushing to d'Artagnan as his limp body is lifted by her and put on to a cart.

They watch as she leads their wounded and helpless brother away and suddenly Porthos and Aramis have to physically hold Athos as he slumps down, his legs going slack. A sob tears through, it is difficult to tell which of them it comes from, and Aramis shudders as all three of them sink together on the ground, a mess of limbs.

Treville looks at the three of his best men collapsed together in a heap. Never has he seen them look so lost, so defeated.

Especially considering that their plan had worked without a hitch. So far.

_O Lord in heaven, please have mercy on all of us. Watch over our brother. Let him be alright. _

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><p><em>Thoughts would be welcome. Your reviews never fail to inspire. :)<em>


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